Lab Rat
by Alexandria-likethecityinEgypt
Summary: Scarecrow has a deadly, new fear toxin, and wants to test its effects. Normally, he would use rats as his test subjects, but after his most recent acquisition, has discovered the value of using birds - A young Robin specifically. High "T" for language, violence, child abuse, experimentation. Dick G./Robin (I do not own any DC characters.)
1. Altered Plans

Batman stood on the support beam overlooking the warehouse. There were twenty-two men below. Scarecrow, however, was nowhere to be seen. He didn't like that; it didn't bode well for the plan.

It was the first time that he had taken Robin with him to tackle one of the 'big baddies' as the boy was wont to call them. Batman would have preferred to have chosen a different baddie to begin with, but they were all high on his list of psychopaths he never wanted Robin to meet, so in the end it wouldn't matter which one he chose, it still would be too soon for him.

Every time Jonathon Crane escaped from Arkham Asylum, he introduced a new variation of his fear toxin. Batman had been inoculated for three separate toxins to date. Whether or not they would aid him if he were introduced to this latest batch remained to be seen. But the plan hatched to obtain a sample of the newest toxin required two people; one to create a distraction while the other stole the sample from wherever Crane's lab turned out to be.

Normally Robin would be the distraction while Batman tackled the Scarecrow, but once he had gotten a glimpse of the number of men, their roles had reversed. He still hated the idea of Robin going up against Scarecrow alone, but there was no way the ten-year old was ready to take on twenty-two armed guards by himself. Some talk from below, however, had led them to believe that Crane was busy elsewhere this evening, so breaking into the lab, stealing the sample, and destroying what toxins were left had been deemed the safer option.

Batman counted down the time left that Robin needed to position himself near the lab. Wouldn't do to begin too early and alert everyone else that the lab was in danger. Another benefit to Batman being the distraction would be the greater likelihood that those present would believe the Batman was working alone tonight. Perhaps, if there were any other guards in the vicinity, they would rush to take him on, and leave Robin's path open, believing the boy was absent.

Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . .

The Batman dropped from the rafters, and pandemonium reigned!

* * *

It didn't take long to locate the lab. The warehouse was two-thirds open space, so the rest of the storage building held only one hall on the three levels built in the remaining portion. Each hallway had just four doors off of it, but held two staircases at either end, providing each level's occupants with two exits, rather than one.

Robin knew exactly when Batman appeared from the muted sounds of gunfire. He waited another couple of minutes for any other guards hanging out back here to rush out in a vain attempt to tame the Bat before Robin slipped out of the ventilation system and dropped to the floor silently. He checked each of the rooms before moving on to the next level. It wasn't until he reached the third floor that he hit pay dirt.

He picked the lock, and entered the room; keeping low. Luck was with him. The lab was deserted!

Robin straightened and rushed over to the row of mini-refrigerators lining the counter against the back wall. A cacophony of shrieks and barks sounded as the animal population present noticed him. He paused, looking in sympathy at the cages stacked on one end of the room. What horrendous experiments had Crane subjected them to?

Robin was supposed to steal a couple of vials of the latest fear toxin, and then set charges to destroy whatever remained of the lab, but looking at the array of pitiful creatures that would be left helpless, Robin didn't think he could do it. He couldn't leave them to die in the resulting fire. The animals were innocent of any wrongdoing. They were as much Scarecrow's victims as the people of Gotham.

He hurriedly pried the lock from the refrigerator door and took his samples; carefully storing them in a pouch on his belt especially prepared to help protect the glass vials from breaking should he find himself in a fight before he could escape. He moved around the room, setting his charges in strategic locations that would best destroy the contents of the lab quickly and as efficiently as possible. Now, he was supposed to retreat to a safe distance and blow the lab to smithereens before heading to the rendezvous point.

Instead, Robin began swiftly opening drawers and cabinets in a race to find the key to the animal cages before Batman either finished with the men below or someone came to check on the safety of the toxin. Robin wanted to free as many animals as he could before he was forced to retreat and proceed with the plan. He needed the keys to do it. He couldn't take the time to pick or break every lock on every cage. It would take far too long, and he was quickly running out of time as it was.

Bingo! Second to the last drawer he tried . . . Robin grabbed the set of keys and ran to the nearest cages. The animals were going bonkers at his approach. Robin paused a minute to reassess the condition of the cages' occupants. Were they merely afraid of him or were they infected? He couldn't, in good conscience, release animals that were rabid and likely to attack people. He couldn't take the time to rescue the cages without risking discovery and endangering himself and the plan. Destroying infected creatures might be the most humane thing he could do for them, but dying in a fire was too cruel . . .

Robin glanced at the clock on the wall. He was running out of time. Already the sounds of gunfire were diminishing. Batman would be retreating soon in expectation of the explosion. He would be expecting Robin to have left the building and proceed to the rendezvous point. If he were very late, Batman would worry. He might even decide to return to the warehouse to find him, endangering himself should he return at the time that the charges went off.

Indecision warred inside of him. Why couldn't _he_ have been the distraction? Oh, yeah, because there had been too many guards for him to handle. They would have kicked his butt before he could have neutralized even half of them.

His eyes scanned the animals desperately, searching for signs of escalated fear compared to a normal reaction. Leave the monkeys that were pinballing around their cages, and release the ones seemed curious, he decided. Leave the dogs that were slathering at the mouth, and release the ones that were merely barking for his attention. Leave the cats that were hissing and attempting to claw at him upon his approach, and release the ones that were hunkered quietly near the rear of the cages. It was the best he could think to do . . .

He opened the door to the hall in preparation of the mass exodus, and the released animals scurried toward freedom. But the ones left behind . . . Tears blurred his vision. They hadn't asked for this, but he couldn't release them only to have them attack innocent people later. If a child were mauled or killed by one of these now obviously rabid creatures, Robin knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

He paused by the glass cages on one of the counters that held the rats, looking back and forth between them. He couldn't tell which rats were contaminated and which were the control group. That Crane would have experimented on the larger animals and not the rats was inconceivable. He would have started on the rats before progressing to larger and more varied animals.

Robin extended his gloved hand near the glass of one cage and then to the other, hoping that the occupants of the infected group would react in a way that would tell him which group he could safely release. Neither group reacted to him in any obvious way that helped him decide. Was it possible that these rats were all apart of the control group? Had Crane already destroyed the contaminated rats?

Robin checked the clock again. He was late! The gunfire had nearly ceased. Either Batman had taken them all down or he had already begun his retreat! He would be expecting the explosion to happen any moment now, and Robin was still hovering above the rat cages. He started to turn away and leave, but made the mistake of looking back over his shoulder.

Batman made a terrible mistake when they had altered the plan. He hadn't taken into account the boy's incredible love of animals, and the high probability that Crane had several test animals kept in the lab.

Robin returned to the rat cages and carefully, but quickly, took the top off. His gloves would hopefully offer him a measure of protection. He reached inside to pick up one of the rats, hoping the action would give him the information he needed to make an informed decision. The creature his hand found squeaked, but didn't fight him. Maybe _this_ group was the control group!

He looked at the rat closely for signs of madness or paranoia. How did one tell if a rat was paranoid?

Suddenly the rodent twisted around and bit his hand between his thumb and forefinger. Its teeth were incredibly sharp and its jaws were strong for an animal so small! His gloves hadn't been able to provide him any protection at all as he felt the teeth penetrate deeply into his hand.

Hissing in pain, he released the rat instinctively, but the little beast had a hold and didn't act as though it meant to release its victim any time soon. Robin caught the rodent in his other hand and squeezed, hoping the rat would let go so that he could toss it back into its cage. The creature hung on as if its very life depended upon it.

So caught up in his struggle, Robin wasn't aware that he was no longer alone in the lab . . . Until, that is, the heavy base of a microscope came crashing down onto his head, and then he became aware of nothing.


	2. Nothing Left

Batman landed in a crouch on top of the building nearly two blocks from the warehouse. He looked around him, but saw no sign that Robin had arrived yet. His head swiveled back in the direction of the warehouse. Was he still in there? The boy had had plenty of time to carry out his instructions.

He waited impatiently for either Robin or the explosion that should have happened five minutes ago. It felt like a decade had passed since he had landed on the roof that had been designated as their rendezvous point. It was all he could do not to pace. Annoyance gave way quickly to worry, though.

Had he been caught?

Decision made, Batman pulled his grapnel gun free from his utility belt. He was making his way back to the warehouse, his eyes peeled for a bright red, green, and yellow figure when the explosion shook the world. Batman swung up onto the roof of the nearest building to the warehouse, his mouth dropping open slightly in shock.

The warehouse was a mass of smoke and flames. The side of the building that they had suspected Crane's laboratory to reside in, the portion that Robin had gone off to search, was completely obliterated! _None_ of the Bat charges had that kind of explosive power, even if Robin had used three times as many as he could carry. Unless . . .

Had Crane some kind of accelerant stored there? _Good God_! If Robin hadn't been clear of blast radius . . .

His eyes searched the debris field for a hint of color. He flicked the telescopic lenses into place. Torn chunks of metal and wood were strewn nearly a hundred yards away, but he couldn't locate his boy anywhere. Fear gripped him as a horrible thought tore through him: _what if Robin hadn't made it out of the building in time_?

In seconds, Batman was on the ground and running toward the fire frantically searching, looking for something, _anything_ that would tell him that Robin had been thrown clear; that somehow his boy was still alive! He refused to believe otherwise.

* * *

Two hours later, the fire was finally under control. Police and firemen milled around as they cleaned up debris, hauled away equipment, and controlled the crowd. A lone figure still searched the area; edging ever closer to the wreckage as the heat and smoke began to clear. He had been moving quickly at first; determination in every step, but, as time passed, he had slowed. And now he simply trudged; shoulders slumped, head bowed as he continued to search . . . and search . . .

"Batman?"

The boots stopped, the cowl rose, but he didn't turn around. He waited.

The police commissioner had come down when the call came through that the Batman had been spotted wandering around the destroyed warehouse. Jim Gordon hadn't approached the figure, but was content to simply watch him. He had initially assumed that Batman was searching for clues, but that assumption had passed when Gordon had realized that the colorful shadow that had followed Batman about for the past year wasn't anywhere to be seen.

Had Robin been left home? Batman often went out without the boy during the week; those nights being school nights obviously. But it was the weekend . . .

His questions were answered when he was approached by the captain of the fire department in charge. Gordon's eyes dropped to what the other man carried in his hands. The charred remnant of a two toned material told the story by virtue of the bright yellow color still visible here and there on one side. It was also obvious that the man didn't want to approach the dark knight being the bearer of ill tidings.

No, that would be left to him . . . The closest thing the Bat had to a friend.

The tightness in his chest, the grief that welled up spoke of that friendship as Gordon tried to find the words that would convey his sympathy. He had always suspected that the boy had been his son. What parent would give their child over to the Batman to fight the evil that stained the streets of Gotham? No, the boy . . . Robin had to belong to him. Whatever insanity had possessed the man to allow the child to join his crusade didn't negate the very real emotions that seemed to hang like a heavy shroud around the dark figure. How many years had Gordon wondered if the man had felt anything beyond what drove him to fight crime and corruption every night?

"They found this," Gordon cleared his throat.

He had warned Batman about the risks of taking a child with him on his crusade. Told him that he would rain down his wrath upon the Bat should the boy come to harm . . . But he suddenly thought that Batman might just welcome his wrath at this moment. Watching him now, Gordon thought that there wasn't much he could do that would increase the pain and regret that was emanating from the vigilante at this moment.

Gordon watched as the shoulders straightened, and thought that the man was steeling himself for whatever discovery he would find once he turned around. He wasn't sure what he was expecting when the vigilante turned to face him, but it wasn't the resigned, stoic expression that greeted him. He might have thought the man robot except the lines around his mouth were tighter than usual; his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. The caped covered shoulders slumped ever so slightly as Batman reached a gloved hand to take the burnt rag that was all that was left of the black and yellow cape that had last adorned the back of a certain enthusiastic, energetic, firebrand.

Gordon didn't think he was mistaken when he noticed the slight tremor in the hand that took the material from him.

"Where?"

Did the Batman's voice sounded a bit more gravelly than usual, or was Gordon projecting his own feelings on the man?

"Near the back entrance; buried beneath a portion of the fire escape. It was too close to the building to find until the fire had been controlled." Gordon waited, but nothing was forthcoming. "Batman, what happened?"

"Was there anything else . . . f-found?" Gordon's question ignored.

If it weren't for that slight stutter, Gordon would have become angry. But then the man never showed any hint of emotion in any other situation, why would Gordon expect anything differently in this case? Because Gordon himself would have been bawling like an infant in like position? Batman was the most controlled person he had ever met – apparently even in his grief.

But there was no mistaking the man's question.

"No. Just this," Gordon told him. "But the fire captain said that isn't uncommon when a fire burned as hot as this one did."

But he was talking to himself. The cape swirled, mixing with the smoke before disappearing entirely. Gordon knew he wasn't leaving, however. He was moving in the direction of the back entrance to search for evidence that likely wasn't there anymore.


	3. The Cage

It was the pounding in his head that woke him up. Like some rabid leprechaun pounding nails on the inside of his skull with a hammer. The pounding was almost loud enough to drown out the ringing in his ears, but not quite. Perhaps, if his brains hadn't been so rattled, Robin might have thought to secretly survey his surroundings before letting his captors know he had woken. As it was, he just opened his eyes, groaning.

He lifted his head, and nearly vomited under the violent wave of vertigo that crashed over him. Robin held still and tried to organize his thoughts, but they kept flitting in and out of his head without staying long enough to recognize, let alone get in order. That meant something, he knew, but he couldn't remember what.

Black spots floated in front of his eyes, but eventually they flickered away, revealing more and more of his surroundings to him. He was in some kind of lab; taking note of the sterile-looking counters, storage and refrigeration units, microscopes, and an ominous-looking, stainless steel gurney with thick, leather straps and heavy duty buckles. It was only when he refocused his eyes about him that he realized he was in a cage with thick metal bars.

Vague images flashed of another lab, different he thought, with stacks of animal cages along one wall. He didn't see a wall of animal cages here, so he reasoned he was in a different lab. Unfortunately, his was the only cage in this room.

He tried to sit up, moving much slower than before. It was then he discovered the metal restraints that chained each of his wrists to the bottom of either side of his cage. There were similar restraints on his ankles. He couldn't stand up even if the top of the cage been more than the thirty-six inches it was in height. Its width and depth were the same as its height; making it a cube. It was too small to straighten his legs out at all, and so his knees were bent with his feet tucked up against his bottom. Even his upper torso was curved a bit to make his body accommodate the cage.

At the moment, it appeared that he was alone. _No time like the present to escape_, he thought, and went to pull out the lock picks hidden in his gloves. He frowned at the dried blood on his glove. _How long had that been there_? _And why didn't he remember where it came from_?

He looked down at his uniform. It too was covered in dried blood – a lot of it. That was when he noticed his belt was missing. He needed to reassess his circumstances, but it was hard to put two thoughts together. The pounding in his head was unrelenting, and if anything, the pain had increased since he had regained consciousness.

There was a word for that . . . Why couldn't he think of it?

He had to lever up on his elbow and bend toward his hand to be able to touch his head. The position felt awkward. If he had kept up practicing his contortions, it might not have been so uncomfortable. It was something he would work on when he got home.

_Home_?

Broken, disjointed images randomly appeared in his mind's eye; a small trailer with a pretty lady cooking at a tiny stove. She turned, smiling at him, and a pleasant warmth filled him; momentarily chasing off the cold, sterile feel of the lab.

A large room with wood paneling flashed before him next. A roaring fire; a comfortable couch; a heavy wooden desk . . . with a dark-haired man sitting behind it working. The man glanced up at him, one corner of his stern mouth quirking up; not really a smile, but that was okay because the smile was there in his eyes. Safety . . . The man behind the desk radiated safety.

Circus colors, animals, and sawdust all flitted through his head. He saw a dark haired man in a leotard standing beside a set of uneven parallel bars; a different man from the one behind the desk. But these images were interspersed with other ones of cultivated landscapes, a large bedroom with tall, paneled casement windows, a big kitchen with a tall, elegant-looking gentleman standing behind the counter holding a plate of cookies.

The images flew in and out so quickly he couldn't hold on to any one of them for any length of time. All of them sparked feelings of home, and yet they were all so different; changing rapidly. He couldn't quite reconcile the two different places or the people he had seen, but all of them inspired a heart-wrenching longing in his chest. They had also made pain in his head worse.

His hand touched the side of his head, where the pain was the worst, and found a deep cut just inches above his right ear with swelling around it. His hair and skin was stiff with dried blood. Something had hit him hard, and he knew it was the reason he was having trouble remembering the places and people in the images; it was the reason he was having difficulty putting his thoughts in order. He wished the ringing would start to go away soon.

Something touched his shoulder, and he jumped, swinging his head around. The movement threw off his coordination; making him bang his elbow, and brought the vertigo back with a vengeance. He retched; his stomach must have been empty, however, since nothing came up but bile. The hammer was replaced with a sledgehammer.

Squinting his eyes, he looked up at the man standing beside his cage. He was tall and lean with dark brown hair, and wearing a lab coat and glasses. He was staring at the boy much like one would a particularly interesting specimen of lab rat.

_How did he sneak up on me_?

The man said something to him, but the words were lost to the ringing in his ears. He spoke again. Robin didn't speak or move. He knew that this man was responsible for putting him in the cage, possibly for his head injury. He decided that by keeping silent the man might mistake his hopefully temporary hearing loss for uncooperativeness.

The man pursed his lips, tilting his head, as he stared at the boy. His chest rose and lowered as if sighing. He reached up and turned a crank at the top of the cage, and suddenly the bars on one side of the cage began to move inward. Robin gasped. He scooted to the opposite side of the cage, but he had so little room to begin with. Was the man going to crush him?

The side of the cage continued to move until Robin was pinned snugly in place; the bars pressing against his shoulders and hips. The man turned and pulled something out of a nearby drawer. Robin's heart sped up at the emergence of the syringe; the needle was long and way too thick. As he watched, the man began filling it with a clear liquid.

He was smiling calmly as he returned to the cage. With a key, he unlocked a small door in the side where his wrist restraint was fastened. He reached in and pulled Robin's arm out; tightening the chain around a hook strategically placed on the outside of the door piece. Robin tried to yank his arm back, but there was nowhere to go, and the chain held his arm tight.

The man was speaking again. Perhaps he should have tried reading his lips, but Robin couldn't seem to pull his gaze away from that needle. He tied a tourniquet around Robin's bicep; tugging it far too tight. It hurt, pinching his skin.

"_NO_!"

Robin yelled, but even his own words were inaudible beneath the constant ringing in his ears. The man raised his head and smiled at him, but did not stop what he was doing. Despite his determination to be brave, Robin thought he might have squealed when the needle slid through his skin and into the vein. At least, he couldn't hear himself whimpering. As he watched the clear liquid disappear from the syringe, he felt the cold wash entering his bloodstream.

What was that he gave him? A-a poison? Panic began to set in for the first time since he had awoken. His heart was pounding; his breathing hitched as he began hyperventilating. His mouth worked, but he couldn't tell if he was screaming or not.

The tourniquet was removed, but his arm wasn't released. The man spoke to him again, but Robin was too immersed in his fear to even try to read his lips. Even as squashed as he was in the cage, he still couldn't reach the two feet to the other side with his other hand. He pulled his knees to his chest, and began kicking the bottom of the cage in an effort to get free.

Was the cage getting smaller again? It must be, he thought although the man hadn't touched the crank again. He couldn't get enough air despite his desperate attempts to draw in oxygen. The dark spots had returned. The ringing grew louder. The pounding increased in speed and intensity.

As his vision began to tunnel, he saw that the man was still watching him; his head tilting with some kind of morbid curiosity. That never-ending smile was the last thing he saw before the darkness finally swallowed him.

* * *

Jonathan Crane watched, fascinated, as Robin, the Boy Wonder, slid into unconsciousness. All he had given the child was a sedative. He had a few more preparations to finish before he would be ready to begin testing the vagaries of his new serum.

When he had found the child in his lab, during Batman's attack, Crane had known that fate had smiled on him; sending him the perfect lab specimen on which to test his fear toxin. Animals never give him the same reactions, thus giving him unexpected results when finally administered to people. He had tried using his own men and assistants before, but good help is always so hard to find these days.

He supposed in his excitement he had swung the microscope with a little bit too much force. The boy had gone down like a rock. It had been quite annoying, all that blood. He had had to toss out his lab coat and the shirt beneath it. There was simply no way to get out that much blood, and Crane was a stickler for neatness in the laboratory.

Luckily, that lab in the warehouse had merely been temporary. There only until this one had been set up properly. He had been planning to move his animals and the rest of his serum when the attack came. He couldn't have gotten everything out that he needed with the Batman likely to burst in at any moment, so he had filled a bag with the last of his serum vials, and carried out the most important test animal he would need.

The small charges that Robin had set around the lab had been convenient to say the least. Crane had his own exploding device in a store room on the second floor. It had taken only the space of a few moments to reenter the building and move the device into the lab. When the bird boy's charges went off, it would be more than enough to set off the larger explosion. There would be nothing left; no lab, no serum, no evidence of Crane's recent activities, and best of all, no Robin!

The Batman would eventually accept that his little bird had thrown off these mortal coils, and leave Crane the freedom to experiment in peace. When Gotham fell to this latest and greatest brew, and the city's inhabitants all intoxicated with his special brand of madness, the Batman would have no clue at how he had personally contributed to its success. Crane found the irony in that delicious!

Once the boy lost consciousness, his breathing evened out, and his panic disappeared. It was interesting how his fear overcame him even without exposing him to Crane's serum. He wondered if young Robin suffered from claustrophobia, or if the head injury contributed to that reaction, and if it would affect his results. The concussion the child was suffering from was more severe than was convenient, unfortunately. He would have to make allowances, and factor it into his results. He wished that he had had the opportunity to have had a chance to study the child's personality first, but the Scarecrow had never had the occasion to meet the famed Robin before now. Never one to cry over spilled milk, Crane would simply make his adjustments and make do.

It was expected that the injury would confuse and disorient the boy, as was nausea. What hadn't been expected was the hearing loss . . . He wondered if it would be permanent or not. It had been a risk using the sedative on him with so severe a concussion, but a necessary one. The child needed to be prepared, and his restraint cage cleaned. Crane wrinkled his nose at the smell of bile.

Vomit always made concentrating a tad difficult.

* * *

**This is Dick Grayson, the first Robin. He is only 10 years old here, so this is before he joined Young Justice, but I liked the costume design of the one used in YJ best.  
**

**I will answer this question from one of my guest reviews (since I can't PM you back as a guest). If you didn't catch it in this chapter - Yes, Robin's cape was left to make Batman believe that Robin died in the explosion. _Will _Batman believe it? Hm, guess you'll have to stay tuned to find out. Same Bat-channel . . . I'm off for a few days, so I hope to be posting to this and my other two stories almost daily.**


	4. The Evidence Be Damned

It was daylight when the Batmobile pulled into the Batcave.

As the car pulled to a stop, Batman could see Alfred lifting his head from where he had cradled it on his arms atop the computer. He blew out an exhausted breath. He was not looking forward to this. His eyes slid over to the empty passenger seat next to him. No, he was not looking forward to this at all.

* * *

Alfred straightened his clothing and moved down to meet his charges. His eyes slid over the dark form exiting the car, searching for signs of injury. It was with a certain amount of consternation that he watched Batman turn his back to his manservant as he carefully closed the door. He looked toward the passenger side of the vehicle, waiting for the young sir to climb out as well.

_That is odd_, he thought. Master Robin was usually the first to bound out of the vehicle; eager to share his tales of daring-do. Odder still was the fact that Batman remained motionless, his hands braced on the roof.

The butler slowed as he neared, an inordinate sense of foreboding filling his chest. Where was Master Robin? Why was he not climbing out of the vehicle? If the boy was injured, why was not Master Batman rushing around the car to carry him out? It was not until he stood next to the Dark Crusader that he glimpsed the rag clenched tightly in his gloved hand. The smell of smoke was quite strong.

The question he wanted to ask; meant to ask lodged in his throat. So he asked another in its stead.

"What is that you have in your hand, sir?"

For a moment, Batman didn't move. Then, silently, he handed the charred material over. It was with trepidation that the elder man took it.

"I fear I don't understand . . ." But then, as Alfred turned the cloth over in his hand, he suddenly did. His breath caught. There were still bright patches of yellow visible on the underside of the blackened cloth.

"Wh-where," the Englishman choked. The smell of burnt cloth and smoke was quite overwhelming him. It made his eyes water. "Where is the bod- the bo . . . the boy," he finally managed to ground out. "Where is the boy?"

* * *

"The fire burned too hot," Batman's growl was lower, gruffer due to hours of searching through smoke-laden air. Or was it from brutally suppressed emotion? "At least, that is the excuse that the fire chief gave me."

The butler appeared startled. "Meaning that there is nothing left, but this . . .? Wait! You said, excuse? So, you do not believe that is the case."

Batman finally turned to face the man beside him. Alfred's usually stoic expression was a jumble of emotion. He was searching Batman for the correct response, but finding nothing but grim determination and regret staring back at him.

"I do not," Batman replied. He turned and marched to the computer.

He brought up the security cameras that circled the warehousing yard. He began pulling up the footage from earlier; from just before he and Robin moved in to infiltrate the Scarecrow's hideaway.

"Sir," Alfred interrupted. "You have been out all night. You are weary and heart-sore, and you smell of smoke."

"I am not going to bed, Alfred," he growled. "Something happened to Robin. I do not believe he was caught in that blast, however, the 'evidence' be damned! And I'm _not_ going to rest until I find out what happened to him!"

"Fine, fine," the butler soothed. He, too, needed to know what happened to their boy. "I wasn't suggesting you go up to bed," although he had been doing just that. "But it might help if you changed out of the Bat suit and showered at the very least. I can bring you down something to eat . . ."

"I'm not hungry," he told him, not looking away from the screen.

If he looked hard along the path he knew they had taken from this one camera angle, he could just make out their movements in the shadows. Robin was good, he thought with pride. If he didn't know where to look, hadn't known that they were right there, even he might not have seen them pass.

Alfred's hand landed on his shoulder. "Do not be foolish, sir," his voice, implacable. "You are exhausted and, despite being emotionally overwrought, you still need to eat in order to keep your strength up. You will be of no help to him if you miss a vital clue because you are too tired to see straight. What help can you be if you are too weak to mount a rescue?"

The video paused as Batman finally turned to his unruly servant. "I am _not_ emotionally-overwrought!"

The elder man merely pursed his lips.

"I am _**not**_!"

"Of course not, sir." The manservant's expression never changed with the exception of raising one annoyingly unruly eyebrow.

Batman glared at the man, not that it did an ounce of good. Alfred and Robin were the only two people on the planet who were aggravatingly immune to the bat-glare. Frustrated and as heartsick as Alfred claimed him to be, he shoved the cowl off of his head, and stalked, glowering, toward the shower.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Bruce sat at the computer sipping a fresh cup of coffee; a half eaten deli sandwich adorned a plate to the left of his elbow. He absently rubbed the towel over his damp hair as his eyes continued to search the four different camera angles that encircled the warehouse in question.

He didn't want to admit it, but Alfred was right, as per usual. The shower, sandwich, and coffee had revived him enough his mind no longer felt sluggish. He was still tired, but not so much that it undermined his ability to concentrate . . .

_. . . Or to pick out furtive movements_!

He brought the camera view up that covered the back side of the warehouse. A van drew near to the fire escape. Its lights were off, but it couldn't hide the brake lights as it pulled to a stop. The driver had turned off the interior lights of the vehicle, he noted, when the door opened and the driver remained in shadow. Bruce followed the movements of the man as he climbed up the metal stairway to the third floor.

The back of the building was encompassed with darker shadows, hidden as it was from the position of the waxing moon. But that only made it more obvious when the emergency exit door on the third level was opened, and light from an interior hallway spilled out like a beacon. All he could see from this distance was dark hair and the hint of glare as light hit a white coat.

A lab coat? Was this Crane, or a lab assistant to him?

Bruce draped the towel on the arm of his chair, and set his coffee down out of his way. He rewound the video, and attempted to zoom in closer. The picture expanded, and the details blurred. Bruce typed out a command and the details cleared a bit. Not as much as he would have liked, unfortunately. Not enough to be able to identify the man entering the building with his face angled away from the camera as it was.

He checked the time on the video. He had been finishing up with the men in the main part of the warehouse when the van pulled up. So, Crane or his assistant had arrived just before he left to rendezvous with Robin. He hadn't caught a glimpse of Robin leaving yet on any of the cameras, so it appeared his original theory that the boy had been caught was becoming more and more likely.

He started the video back up and continued watching. Several minutes passed. Batman would have left the building by now, he noted. A couple of more minutes went by before the door opened again. The man reappeared heavily laden. Bruce paused the video feed before the door swung shut behind him.

_THERE_!

The back-lighted figure was holding something in his arms. Unable to make out details in the shadowed places, the outline was enough to confirm his suspicions. Legs hung from one side of the shadow; a long piece of fluttering material that flashed yellow, an arm dangling limply.

He resumed the video. The door closed, and the shadowy figure made its way down the fire escape with its precious burden. He watched as the man deposited his cargo inside the darkened van. A moment later, the man moved back to the stairs. He was holding what Bruce now recognized as Robin's cape. He observed the man opening the third level door once more and closing it on the cape so that it didn't blow away in a stiff wind.

Bruce paused it again as the figure bent in the open doorway. The man was partially facing the camera, and the light from the hallway illuminated one side of his face and figure. Bruce attempted to zoom in again, and tried to clear the resulting blurriness. The details he could make out were just enough that he thought he could recognize Jonathan Crane.

Bruce froze. The light from the hallway gleamed on the white lab coat, but also illuminated the bright red swath of . . . blood? Was that _blood_ that covered Crane's coat and sleeve? _Robin's_ blood?

There was so much of it! The entire sleeve from the elbow down was red! His lapel from chest level and below, until it disappeared in shadow, was red! Dear God!

As he suspected, Robin didn't die in the explosion, but had Crane killed him and stolen his body? For what purpose would he take the child's body? It made no sense! It made no sense because . . .

The shock was wearing off, and Bruce's face hardened.

It made no sense because Robin _wasn't_ dead!


	5. Prepping the Subject

**This chapter shows treatment meant to de-humanize the test subject. It is meant to make you, the reader, more than a little uncomfortable, and the subject humiliated (if not traumatized) as preparations are made to make his care as easy and convenient as possible so that the experiments can proceed with little to no consideration for the 'specimen'.**

**WARNING: Strong Language. Traumatic and Emotional Scene ahead . . .**

* * *

He was c-cold . . .

His teeth chattering made his head ache. Robin scrunched his eyes shut tighter. He didn't want to wake up. Consciousness meant pain, and he was tired of hurting.

Cool water splashed his face, making him catch his breath. His eyes popped open as he gasped aloud. His back arched in shock. Lights above him, spinning madly. Faces moving in and out of his vision. His world tilted on its axis, and fresh nausea bloomed.

Ringing . . . The ringing still remained, but it wasn't as loud as before because he could hear other sounds in the background. Metal clanking on metal . . . Were those voices? Why couldn't he tell what they were saying? They were just mumbles, and sounded so far away. He turned his head to see where the noises were coming from.

Hands pushed his shoulders back down. His eyes followed the arms up to the face of a woman. She had dark hair pulled back, and a white lab coat on. She didn't smile at him when her eyes met his, he thought that they were colder than the water. Her gaze flicked away to whatever she was doing. What was she doing?

"Hold his head still," the man's voice sounded muffled, like he was speaking from within a barrel.

The woman's hands moved to hold his head at an angle. Robin felt something tugging at him. He rolled his eyes to see, but the woman's hands tightened their grip. It hurt. What were they doing to him?

"Irrigate the sutures with more saline," the man's voice spoke again. "Cut the costume off of him and get him cleaned up. He won't need it anymore anyway."

His costume? Robin blinked, confused. They were going to cut his uniform off of him? But _why_?

"What about his mask," the woman asked. Her voice sounded like the man's; muffled, as if coming from inside a barrel.

"Noooo," Robin protested. He could barely even hear his own voice.

The two people above him didn't notice.

"I discovered how to raise the lenses," the man was saying. "Leave the mask on for now. It won't matter."

"You don't want to see who he is?"

"I _know_ who he is," the man said. "He's Robin. That's all I need to know for now. Leave the mask; get rid of everything else."

"He's awake," the woman said. "I might need help moving him."

"I'll send in someone." The man's voice was moving away from the table. He said something else, but Robin couldn't hear him well enough over the ringing to understand him.

The woman let go of his head and moved out of sight, so Robin tried to bring his hand up to feel what the man had done to him. His hand only lifted a couple of inches. He was _restrained_? Startled, he focused his attention a little more on his surroundings.

He was still in the laboratory, he thought. He turned his head to the left until he could see a cage with a turnstile wheel on it. One end was opened. Metal cuffs lay inside secured to the bars. That was the cage he had woken up in earlier . . . Today? Or had that been yesterday? He had no conception of the passing of time; no idea of how long he had been here.

There was blood pooling on the bottom of the cage. Vaguely he remembered the head wound. That would account for the headache, mental confusion, and ringing in his ears. He probably had a . . . a . . . a what? What was the word? It was right there, just out of reach.

That explained, however, what the man had been doing to him. The tugging he felt had been the man stitching up the gash. Probably tired of all the mess he was making while bleeding. His hair felt wet. Was that the blood or was it saline?

His face scrunched up in concentration. Was he in a hospital? What hospital used cages, though? And if he were hurt enough to need medical treatment, then where was his . . . parents? His mom and . . . dad?

Two images popped into his mind; each was of a man with dark hair. One man wore colorful leotards and smiled happily at him, while the other man sat at his desk; his smile could only be seen in his eyes. They kind of overlapped one another; one image becoming more focused before fading to the other.

Which one was the correct one?

Something pulled at him, and he attempted to look down his body to see what was happening. Another man, this one blond, was standing near the bottom of the table opposite the woman. Where had he come from? The ringing was preventing him from hearing anything that wasn't happening in the close vicinity of his ears, and that frightened him.

He couldn't see what the woman was doing, but suddenly he felt cool air rush over his bared skin. The man tugged something from under him, and Robin saw his tights suddenly appear in the man's hands. _They were doing it_! They were actually cutting his uniform off of him!

He felt the cold metal of the table beneath his bottom. The shock of it galvanized him! He was strapped down on that metal gurney while two strangers were stripping him naked! He jerked his arms up, but both were held securely with heavy leather cuffs. His ankles were equally secured he discovered when he tried to kick the people away from him.

"S-ssstop," he slurred. "Noooo, don't!"

The woman ignored him. She lifted scissors up to his neckline and proceeded to cut away his tunic. The man waited until she turned away before yanking the rest of his uniform from underneath of him. The cold metal greeted his bare back.

The woman reappeared with a long, black hose that was attached to a spot high on the wall between cabinets. The man turned back to him with a sponge. She began to spray him down with cold water, ignoring his protests as the man began scrubbing his body with the rough sponge.

They were talking above him. He couldn't quite hear the sound of their voices over the roar of the hose and the ever-present ringing in his ears. Although he couldn't make out their words, he had the feeling that they weren't talking about him. He kind of got the impression that he was just a task that they were performing, perhaps one they had performed before on enough occasions that he was nothing special.

It didn't keep him from feeling embarrassed and humiliated when they cleaned and rinsed his groin and buttocks. They quickly moved on to his legs without lingering unnecessarily, but Robin found it difficult to calm himself after having strangers touching him so intimately. His heart was pounding and his face felt hot.

As the woman turned off the water, the man began toweling him off quickly. The woman returned with a hospital gown. The sleeves snapped, so she could put it on without unhooking his cuffs. By this time, Robin was shivering heavily.

The two turned away again, and Robin turned his head to see what other humiliations they would force upon him. His eyes widened in panic when the woman turned back to him with a bag and a tube. _What the hell was that for_? The man had a tray with him. They settled at his hips; placing their supplies between his legs.

"Wh-what are y-you d-doing?" Robin lifted his head to watch. "N-No, don't! S-Stop! I don't want th-that!"

He was completely ignored. They didn't even acknowledge that he spoke. They snapped gloves on, and when one of them touched him below in preparation of inserting the tube, he dropped his head back down. He didn't want to watch this. Tears slithered from his eyes, running down his temples and into his hairline.

"Please, s-stop! Don't . . ." He could barely hear himself. Maybe he wasn't talking loud enough. Maybe they didn't hear him.

"S-Stop! Don't touch me," he yelled. Or at least he thought he yelled. The ringing was still too loud to tell. But if they heard him, they gave no indication.

It was only minutes before the bag was attached and hung off the side of the gurney. He felt one of his cuffs being detached, and he was turned to his side. He tried to strike out with his freed hand, but the man quickly reattached the cuff to the side. Vertigo made his stomach rebel, and he retched bile and stomach acid.

The woman cursed and shoved a towel beneath his head.

"He's okay now," Robin heard her say to her companion now that she was standing near his head. "Can you get the supplies for the bowel catheter ready?"

_Bowel catheter_? _What is that_, his brain whimpered.

"Please, why are you doing this," he cried.

For the first time the woman acknowledged his existence. She looked down at him with a neutral expression. He didn't think she would answer him, but she sighed after a moment. "So, we won't be bothered with your bathroom needs during your time here. You can stay in your cage or strapped to the gurney without mess or fuss," she stated matter-of-factly.

He blinked. He must have misheard her. Her voice was so muffled that he _had_ to have misheard her. Why would they do this?

"B-But I don't want you to do that," he whined. "Why can't I just go to the bathroom like normal?"

But she was no longer interested in his questions. She walked away from him and disappeared behind the table. His gown was pushed out of the way, exposing his bottom to whoever stood behind him. He tried to roll back, but a strong male hand halted his progress. Fingers began to pull his buttocks apart in preparation for whatever they planned to do to him. He tried to pull away, but merciless hands grabbed his hip with bruising force.

"I can't do this if he keeps moving like this," a male voice complained. "You need to hold him or I could tear something."

"You hold it and I will do it," the woman replied.

Robin's leg was repositioned and a heavy weight held him down. The strong fingers were back, and when he felt something touch his rectum, he flinched and screamed. He renewed his struggles with every ounce of strength left inside of him.

"Stop," the male said. "He's moving too much. We're going to hurt him."

"Then it will be its own fault," the woman snapped. "We have to get this done. Hold it down more firmly."

He was being pushed onto his stomach. The weight increased to the point he could barely breathe. He twisted as much as he could; kicking out with his legs as far as the restraints would allow him. Cold, hard fingers were touching him again and something was pushing into him. He jerked and squirmed; and it slid free.

"Damn it," the woman cursed.

"This is ridiculous," the man complained again. "Why don't you just give it to him? This way is too difficult and we're hurting him!"

The woman mumbled something, and the man hesitated before growling at her angrily. "Fine, then . . . 'It'! Crane won't be happy if you damage**_ it_ **too much! Do you want to explain to him why he has to delay his tests?"

Robin continued to struggle, and suddenly the woman reappeared with a syringe in her hand. The man held him still and a moment later he felt a sting in his hip. Cold began seeping into his system, like he wasn't cold enough already. A numbness began to spread from the site of the injection.

"Nooo, Da-a-addy," he cried.

His head was pounding now with the same rhythm as his heart. His brain seemed to bang against his skull much as his heart banged against his sternum. In a few minutes, he began to calm as his vision tunneled and darkened. Despite the numbness, he could feel everything being done to him, but couldn't find the strength any more to care. The procedure was over in minutes. His restraints were finally being removed when the darkness finally claimed him.

* * *

**Warning: This is only the preparation.  
**


	6. Escape Attempt

**Warning: Disturbing images and language ahead. **

* * *

It was the sound of banging metal and heavy thumps that woke him up this time. Robin opened his eyes to a flurry of activity. The two lab assistants were busy directing several large men in moving the metal gurney. He didn't mind. He hated that gurney.

It took him a moment to realize that he was actually hearing sounds other than the ringing now. The high pitch noise wasn't completely gone, however, just faded into the background. The sounds in the room itself were dulled still; as if he were hearing them take place in another room. But it was improvement. He would take it and be grateful.

He watched as the men carried the metal gurney out of the lab. Conversation was minimal, but he could hear people from across the room now; as long as they were facing him. The barrel phenomenon was still in play, but the muffled words were more easily understood.

"Bring in the chair. We are going to set it up in the same place as the gurney," the woman was saying. Today she was carrying a clipboard.

A few minutes later, three men lugged in what looked like a dentist's chair. It was smaller, however; child-sized. Robin's heart started beating faster as he watched them set the chair down in place of the gurney. One of the men crawled underneath to screw in heavy bolts into the floor so that the chair wouldn't move.

The same thick leather straps and metal buckles were present on the arms and the foot of the chair as was on the table. An additional straps were attached to the headpiece that would lock the person's head in place; one across the forehead, the other a chinstrap.

Robin felt his body begin to tremble. Were they going to strap him into that chair? What were they planning to do to him that he would need his head secured? Were they going to torture him? Pull out his teeth? He tried to scoot back in his cage, but he only had a few inches to spare. The chains attached to his cuffs clanked on the metal bars at his movements. He froze, but no one looked at him. It was as if he didn't exist, and yet he knew in every fiber of his being that the preparations being made now were specifically for him.

His legs were already bent, but Robin drew them up toward his chest. He hunched in order to make himself even smaller than he was. Maybe if he lay perfectly still, and made no noise, they would forget he was there. It was a stupid thought. He knew it was a stupid thought, but it didn't stop him from drawing in on himself anyway.

He was scared. He didn't like admitting it because he had little respect for cowards, but he knew that that chair was a bad thing. He just wanted to go home.

As before, when thoughts of home came to him, images began flashing in his mind. They moved slower this time, however; lingering long enough that he could see more of the details. A tiny table for three; a bunkbed near the ceiling with a window that allowed him to see the stars; a stuffed elephant. A grand Christmas tree decorated with a million lights and red, green, and gold sparkling ornaments; an ornately carved fireplace with fragrant wood crackling in the grate; a fantastic crystal chandelier, brilliantly lit and glowing marble.

The two different images continued to confuse him. Both the plain and simple, and the rich and ornate beckoned him with thoughts of comfort and warmth. Which one was home? Which one was real?

The men appeared in his mind again. The dusky-skinned man swinging by his knees held his arms out. "Jump! Don't worry, son, I will always be here to catch you!"

His breath caught. His chains rattled as he found himself reaching out to the image. It startled him, and he froze, waiting for the people in the room to come and haul him out of his cage. No one paid him any mind, and so slowly he started to relax again. When his breathing slowed back to normal levels, Robin searched his mind for more images of the man.

It was the other man that appeared this time. He sat at a large table in a suit, drinking coffee and reading the paper. When he looked over at him, a rare smile appeared and his eyes crinkled. Robin smiled back. He saw another image of the man; this time sitting on the side of the bed. He had a book in one hand, and with the other he reached out to ruffle Robin's hair. He could almost feel the large, broad fingers lifting his hair and stroking his scalp; soothing him.

"Go to sleep," he said to him. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Robin let his eyes drift shut, the sounds around him fading away . . .

* * *

A clang startled him back to wakefulness. The bars behind his head fell away, and rough hands grabbed him under his arms to pull him out of the cage. His hands and feet were free! He hadn't even felt them uncuffing him!

He had been dreaming of his father . . . At least, Robin thought it had been his father. And his first thoughts were that his father had come to rescue him; to take him home, to safety.

He looked up into the face of the blond lab assistant, and reality seemed to kick him in the gut. Robin jumped and twisted, rolling out of the startled man's arms. Landing in a crouch, he glanced around him to locate the exit and any other potential threats. The dark-haired woman was standing on the other side of that dreaded chair. She yelled when she saw him.

"Grab him!"

The man reached for him. Robin didn't think, darted toward the door. A sudden wrenching pain in his groin and bottom practically tore him apart! Those tube things they had put in him yesterday had ripped free. Robin screamed, but he didn't stop; couldn't stop. He would assess his damage after he escaped. So, he ran; ignoring razor sharp pain and the wet warmth that poured down his legs.

He nearly fell on his face; his legs unused to stretching and supporting his weight, his knees were stiff and ached. How long had he been in that cage? The woman lunged for him, but he was still faster, and dodged her hands, slipping a little in the liquid streaming around his feet. She tumbled onto the floor and he leaped over her. The door was right there! Once he made the hallway, Robin was certain he would be able to find his way out. He would have to move fast and not stop until he found help, however, because he was leaving a trail for them to follow.

He grabbed the knob and twisted it, the heavy door falling away. Freedom! He darted through the opening only to slam into another body. Hard hands came down on his shoulders, bruising him. He jerked his head up to see the dark-haired man with the glasses. He looked startled to see him, but his cold eyes became very quickly angry. Robin dropped to his knees, hoping to pull free of the man's grip.

It worked!

He scrambled to the side, slipping as he clambered to his feet; trying to run when something grabbed his hair and yanked him back. The pain in the side of his skull flared anew, causing him to gasp. Other hands grabbed him and lifted him up.

"_Noooo_," he screamed. "Let me go! Leave me alone! I want to go home!"

He jerked and kicked and tried to bite, but vertigo was making the world spin, and the nausea returned. He was slammed onto his back. He gasped as he realized that he was in the _chair_! He renewed his efforts to escape, twisting and kicking as hard as he could.

The leather strap was suddenly cinched tight around one of his wrists, and he screamed his fear and frustration. No! If he were strapped down again, he would never escape! His second wrist was secured next. Robin yanked uselessly against his bonds as three sets of hands now began securing his legs.

He glanced down at the three heads bent; working together to strap his legs down, but it was the blood that grabbed his attention. The entire lower part of his gown, his legs and feet, and now the chair itself was covered in it. The tearing pain he had felt initially came back with a vengeance, and he arched his back and twisted under it. It felt as though someone had ripped his way out of his body with a knife. Seeing the blood, he thought that maybe they _had_ .

* * *

"Damn it!"

"Help me," Robin begged. "_Please_! Make it stop!"

Crane grabbed Robin's jaw and jerked his face up. "You little _shit_! Do you even realize what you've done? Do you know how much time you've wasted? Now we have to clean you and the room up before we can even begin the testing! You've put everything behind schedule now with your pathetic attempt to escape!"

Robin blinked at him. Crane's fingers were bruising the boy's jaw, but Robin seemed consumed by the savage pain in his lower body!

"Please," the boy pleaded, tears pouring down his face. "It _hurts_! Oh, God, make it stop!"

Crane stared at him. An angry breath hissed from between clenched teeth. He shoved Robin's face away, and turned to the others.

"It smells like shit in here," he complained. "Clean this mess up and call me when you're finished so I can assess the damage he's done to himself. He is of no use to us if he manages to hemorrhage to death."

Jeremy, the blond man, looked down at the blood and other fluids that were dripping off of the chair onto the floor. "Should I get blood for a transfusion?"

Crane looked down as well, and sighed. "No. It only looks like a lot of blood being mixed with other bodily fluids as it is. Besides, we would have to test for blood type first. How much O negative to we have on hand? It might be best to build our stock, just in case."

"He lost a lot of blood during the past two days," Lydia, his dark-haired assistant, reminded him.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Check his blood pressure, and I'll see that a pint of O negative is sent up. Once he has been cleaned up and patched up, I want you to re-insert the catheters. But be more careful next time or we'll have three test subjects to work with instead of just one." He walked to the door. "Call me when you're finished. If he hasn't done too much damage, maybe we can still salvage the day. It's early yet."

"Should we sedate him," Jeremy asked.

"No. If he's sedated, we would have to wait longer to begin the tests."

"What about painkillers? Without the sedation, he's going to be hurting, and the stuff we will have to do will only make it worse," Jeremy added.

Crane narrowed his eyes on the boy twisting in pain and crying in the chair. "No. He has caused enough trouble. Perhaps a little pain would do nicely as a deterrent against future escape attempts and general uncooperativeness."

Jeremy frowned. "Yes, I can see that, but this is a _LOT_ of pain. Maybe something mild . . ."

"No! He earned this. He will just have to suffer through it. You have your instructions." With that Crane turned and left.

* * *

"What's wrong with you," Lydia asked.

"What," Jeremy asked defensively. "Come on. Let's get to work. Grab the hose while I strip him."

"Fine," she hissed. "But you know better than to think of him as something other than a test subject."

"I don't," he snarled at her. "It just seems unnecessary, is all. I mean, how are we supposed to get clean data when the subject is weak, injured, and in tons of pain! The results will be skewed!"

Lydia paused, staring at her co-worker over top of the boy. "That's not for you to decide. Besides, this isn't the usual type of toxin. It's not meant to create madness like the others. He still has the original to do that. It works plenty well. This one is meant for use on specific individuals and he's going to sell it to the highest bidder. That means we will see a portion of that profit, too . . . _If_ you can keep your head in the game."

Jeremy adjusted the chair height and reclined it back. He ignored the child's cries as he removed the blood-soaked gown. It dripped on his shoes. He looked down at his ruined loafers, and let anger block out any lingering sympathy. There was nothing he could do for the kid anyway. And if he tried, Jeremy looked up at his co-worker, he had no doubt it would be him in that chair.

As Lydia came back with the water hose, the boy turned pain-wracked eyes on them. "Please," he begged. "Please, help me!"

Jeremy tightened his jaw, steeled his heart, and grabbed the hose from Lydia. "Shut up," he snarled, and turned the high-pressure water on him.

* * *

**If Crane is different from canon, then I apologize. Wherever he differs, think AU because this is fan fiction.**


	7. Now More Than Ever

**Warning: Some language.**

**I'm no detective. Keeping that in mind, I hope you enjoy . . .**

* * *

"_Damn_ it!"

Alfred stopped dusting, and walked over to where Bruce was sitting in front of the Bat-computer. The man was reclining back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair in frustration. He suddenly straightened, and pounded his fist on the countertop.

"You still haven't been able to locate the van, sir?" Alfred looked at the huge screen that currently had up eight different images; one of which was static.

"_Five_, Alfred! _Five_ different traffic cams are down! What is wrong with Gotham's Department of Transportation that they can't keep the cameras maintained properly?" Bruce stood up, his body rigid with tension, anger, and worry. He clamped his hands down on the chair.

"I've lost the van three times now." He complained. "Each time I've managed to find it again, but only after hours of searching. It was already difficult enough being that there aren't cameras at every intersection, but there are fewer the farther away from the business and industrial areas I get. Now, after all of this, I am no closer to finding Dick than I was yesterday!"

With a growl of anger, Bruce picked up the chair and threw it across the cave. Alfred steps back, startled. He had seen Batman frustrated and angry on more occasions than he cared to remember, but he had seldom if ever found Bruce, the man, this out of control. His concern and worry for the boy doubled as he watched his eldest charge march over to the cave's gym, and start pounding on a bag without bothering to first wrap his hands.

Alfred was hesitant to interrupt him. The master needed a way to release some of his tension before he collapsed, but when he was still pounding the bag an hour later with nothing to show for it but bloody knuckles, he felt he had no choice.

"Perhaps you should take a small break now, Master Bruce," he suggested.

Bruce turned, sweat dripping down his face. "I've been taking a break. What I need to do is get back to work, and find that blasted van!"

"Sir, I meant you need to sleep."

"I've slept enough," he growled, walking over to grab a bottle of water from a small refrigerator.

"Catnaps, sir, can hardly take the place of a few hours of REM sleep," Alfred countered.

"Dick doesn't have that kind of time. I've already wasted enough as it is," he snarled, venting his anger at himself.

Alfred struggled to give the man hope. "Robin is nothing if not resilient and resourceful, sir. There is always the hope that he has managed to find a way to escape the Scarecrow, and is even now making his way home."

When Master Bruce met his butler's gaze this time, the anger had been replaced with frustration and despair. "He's never been away from the manor for this long before. He's never been alone for this length of time since we brought him home a year and a half ago. And he's injured, Alfred. The video feed from the warehouse the night of the explosion shows Crane drenched in blood!"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but that image is hazy and dark at best. It's true the lad may be injured, but you can't say for sure if it is a serious injury."

"Alfred . . ."

"No, sir. Do not borrow trouble. We have enough of our own without you losing hope at this critical juncture. Our boy needs you; now, more than ever."

"I miss him, Alfred."

The butler sagged a little at this quiet admission. "Ah, yes indeed. I do, too, sir, but it has only been two days."

Bruce laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Two days! It feels more like two _weeks_! I knew I had grown fond of him; that I beginning to care more for the boy than was wise, but _this_ . . . _This_ is more than I bargained for. This . . . Ah, God, Alfred! I don't know that I could get over this if-if anything . . . happened."

Alfred sighed. "You are not the only one who has fallen under the young master's thrall. I, too, must admit that I've come to love the boy."

"Is that what this pain is?" Bruce clutched at his chest with one hand, oblivious to the blood he smeared on his shirt. "Because I barely survived it when my parents left, and this feels even more . . ." he blew out a breath. "Just . . . more."

"Enough of this," Alfred clapped his hands together. "Master Richard is in need of our strength, not our despair! If you are not going to sleep, sir, then I must request that you stop wallowing and get back to work. I'll be back in a moment to take care of your hands, and then I will fix you a light repast."

Bruce blinked at his servant, a man who had always been far more than any mere employee, in surprise. He nodded, and moved back in the direction of the computer monitor; purpose returned to his step.

"You're right, as usual, Alfred," he said, starting the traffic video up again. What would he ever do without the man? It didn't bear thinking about . . .

* * *

It was an unusual sight to see the Batmobile out in broad daylight. People who had only seen images of the vehicle in the news or plastered on the front page of the newspaper craned their necks as the ominous, black car drove by. Some came out to better see the car as it cruised past while others, concerned to see the crime-fighter outside of his usual turf, scurried back to the relative safety of their homes. Children waved to their hero and complained as their mothers herded them out of the potential line of fire.

Inside the vehicle, Batman kept his eyes glued to the GPS signal of the van's last known location. It turned out that the van Crane had used had been stolen. The police reported the vehicle's location several miles from its last sighting using the traffic camera footage.

Although it was outside of Commissioner Gordon's district, Batman had called him as soon as he heard the report over the police band that a white van that had been stolen three day prior had been located in a mall parking garage far out into the suburbs. Gordon had hopped right on it, sending word to the local department to not approach the vehicle, but instead to wait until the Batman had arrived. Rumors had started amongst the officers that the van was potentially booby-trapped, and as the Batmobile rolled to a stop a short distance away, SWAT and the bomb squad were already in place in preparation.

"Batman," A plain clothed cop moved to intercept the vigilante. "I'm Detective Harlow, one of the officers in charge. I could hardly believe it when word came down that you was interested in a stolen vehicle."

"Detective," Batman greeted, but did not slow down. "I believe this vehicle was used to move illegal substances, stolen property, and possibly a kidnapping."

Harlow whistled. "Holy . . . A kidnapping, huh? I hadn't heard anything about a kidnapping in a couple of weeks. Anyone I know?"

Harlow skidded to a stop when Batman halted abruptly. He had almost run into the man's back. He stepped to the side and looked up at the mask, suppressing a shiver. There were white lenses instead of eyes! Jeez, no wonder the criminals were terrified of the guy.

And it wasn't as if the man was a regular Joe, either. Harlow judged him to be at least six foot two inches, not counting the pointy ears. And he was big, too. Not linebacker big, but still built for business; his powerful musculature was emphasized by built-in body armor. Not someone Harlow had any desire to get on the wrong side of, dark alley or sunny broad street.

The man looked at Harlow, as if debating something. He had a feeling that the big, black Bat didn't often hand out information, but despite the vigilante being covered from head to toe and the only part of the man visible to the world was a rock-solid jaw and a stern mouth, Harlow knew people. He read miles of information based upon body language, posture, expression . . . And what he read in the Bat was tons of tension, grim determination, and, maybe he was wrong here, fear.

Harlow straightened his stance; seriousness replacing his earlier irreverent humor. Whatever scared the Bat . . . Well, it terrified the bejesus out of Harlow! This case meant something to the man. Unlike many of his fellow detectives and officers, he respected what the man did; appreciated his sacrifice for the sake of the people of Gotham because Harlow knew what kind of sacrifices he made on a daily basis for the sake of the job. He knew that the sacrifices that the Batman made had to make his own look almost pathetic in comparison. He could hardly imagine the will power and dedication it took to stand up to the psychos and creeps just so Harlow and his fellow cops had a better chance of going home to their families every night.

So, the detective was startled when the Batman took a step closer to him, and in a low growl, spoke one word.

"Robin."

Harlow's eyes widened even as he scowled. The kid? That bright, little shadow that he had seen flipping and twisting and bouncing all around the Masked Crusader on the news? Everyone and their brother had speculated on the kid. It was pretty much unanimous that the boy could be none other than the Dark Knight's own son.

"Someone took Robin?"

The Bat's lips tightened even more, until they appeared bloodless. He nodded once. Harlow looked about him. Officers and SWAT were all scattered around. Looking in the windows confirmed the belief that the van was empty. But the windows were tinted dark, so it was technically possible for a body, particularly a body of a child, to be stashed in there.

He hoped not . . . His own boy, Sam, idolized the Batman, but seemed to really connect with Robin, probably because they appeared similar in age. Just last weekend, his son had jumped and hopped all over the back yard with a construction paper mask and a yellow security blanket tied around his neck determined to save the world.

God . . . he really just . . . He just hoped that wasn't the case here; that there wasn't a body in there. And not just for Batman's sake.

The idea that a kid as able as Robin seemed to be could be swiped from under the Batman's watch . . . He shivered. What chance would his own boy have against the kinds of crazies that targeted children in this town?

There had to be a happy ending to this, he determined. If Robin didn't come out of this okay, there was no hope left for the rest of them.

"Come on, then," Harlow told the vigilante. "Let's go get your boy back."

Those bloodless lips seemed to relax for just a moment, before he turned back to the van. The two men marched up to the white vehicle side-by-side, in this quest, united.

* * *

Batman paused outside the van that he had been searching for these past two days. In it, he prayed he would find a clue to Robin's whereabouts; and, if he were lucky, some tiny indication that his boy was still alive.

He glanced at the detective beside him. Harlow seemed like a good man. What had possessed him to trust him with the knowledge of Robin's disappearance, he had no idea. But the man had suddenly focused onto the situation like a laser beam. Had he needed the emotional support in case whatever he found wasn't favorable to his cause?

Batman hated emotional basket cases. That he was this close to becoming one was no comfort. He would have preferred to do this privately, but there was no way he would be able to order these cops to leave. Usually, when his emotions threatened to overwhelm him, Batman shut down and closed out the world. Today, he had reached out to another . . . He needed to get his mind back in the game! Robin was counting on him!

"Are there security cameras throughout the garage?" Batman spotted a camera even as the question left his mouth.

"Sure is," Harlow nodded. "I've already sent a man to get footage of the cameras for this level."

"I'd like to see the footage for all the cameras in the garage for the past fifty hours."

"All of them, huh? Shouldn't be a problem," he said, waving another officer over. Harlow gave him the instructions and sent him back in to the security offices, requesting two copies this time; one for the department and one for Batman.

Batman nodded his appreciation. Usually, he had to work through Gordon to get any help from the cops, many of them resenting the idea that GCPD needed the help of a costumed vigilante.

Scarecrow wasn't known for setting bombs, at least not those that tended to blow people's heads off. He was known for setting fear bombs, however, that would douse the unwitting victims with his fear toxin.

Batman glanced at the man at his side as he slid out his rebreather. "You might want to take several steps back."

Harlow frowned at him. "What about you? Wouldn't it be better to send in the bomb squad if you are afraid of that?"

"It's not a bomb I am expecting. I suspect that the person that stole this vehicle might be the Scarecrow."

Harlow took several large steps backward, waving his fellow officers back even farther. "Is this good?"

Batman nodded. He turned back around and gripped the sliding door on the side of the van. It clicked as it detached. He slid it back. After a minute, he realized that there would be no expulsion of the dangerous gas, he removed the rebreather; tucking it back into place in his utility belt.

The first place his eyes looked was the area he had seen Crane drop Robin's body. It wasn't hard to find. In spite of his preparation, his mouth dropped open in shock. Crane hadn't bothered getting rid of the evidence at all.

The bottom of the van was brown with dried blood; too much of it. _Dear God_, he thought, in a panic. _How could he live through that_?

Seconds later, he shoved the shock to the back of his mind. This was obviously from a head wound, he decided. Robin had been unconscious at the time of his abduction, of that he was certain. Head wounds didn't have to be severe for them to bleed a lot, he reminded himself. _Get past this and look for clues_!

Batman dug out his flashlight. Robin had dubbed it his Bat-light. He pushed the unbidden memory away. It was too distracting. He leaned in the van and began to sweep it for clues.

A gasp told him that Harlow had rejoined him now that the danger had passed.

"Holy . . . That's a lot of blood! You don't think all this is from Robin, do you?" _Say no_, the detective thought. _Please say no_!

Batman nodded once. "I had a suspicion that Robin was injured. He wouldn't have been taken otherwise. But it is a shock to see; even prepared as I was, it took me aback."

"What are you looking for? Can I help? The forensics guys are right over there, you know. They can find a needle in twenty haystacks." Harlow told him.

"Just give me a few minutes," Batman requested. "Then they can have at it."

"Sure thing."

It didn't even take that long.

Long scratches marred the paint on the floor of the van. The vehicle had been used to move something heavy at some point. He tried to keep in mind that the van had been stolen, and that it was possible that the scratches had been there before Crane's men had taken it.

There were several hairs located on the passenger seat. They were too short and coarse, he thought, to be human. He used tweezers to place the hairs into a small, plastic case which he tucked back into his belt.

A quick run through the glove box revealed yet another clue; One small vial of clear liquid. It wasn't marked and only a small amount was left. He wondered if this had this been used on Robin? He dropped it into a plastic bag and tucked it into his utility belt.

Batman glanced at the vehicle's registration. It belonged to a medical supply store located on the other side of Gotham. He climbed out of the van and checked the tires. Small pea gravel was evident and mud. He plucked a bit from the tread to analyze. A few more minutes, and he was certain that there was nothing left to find. He walked back around to the side of the van. He finally lifted a bit of the dried blood and placed it in another plastic container just to be sure.

Before he left, Batman pulled out a tiny spray bottle of ammonia. He hated having to destroy evidence, but he couldn't risk having Dick's DNA on file. In seconds, he had coated the dried brown blood thoroughly with the ammonia.

* * *

"What's that smell," Harlow asked, leaning in the van. "What did you do?"

"Only what I had to do," Batman replied. "There is still evidence left to collect, but I couldn't risk your forensics department having Robin's DNA on file. You understand why."

Harlow scowled. "And what if that blood isn't Robin's? You might have just screwed us on this case. I could haul your bat-ass in for destroying evidence."

"If it _isn't_ Robin's DNA, I will send you a copy of my report for your files. Thank you, Detective Harlow. I know that you will probably get all kinds of flack for allowing me to collect my evidence first, but you might just have saved Robin's life in doing so."

Harlow sighed. The Bat was right about the flack he was in for, but remembering Sam in his mask and yellow security blanket, he couldn't make himself regret it. "Yeah, yeah," he said. "Look, here's the copy of the security footage that you requested. Good luck. I hope you find your kid."

Batman nodded curtly. Taking the tape, he turned and strode quickly back to the Batmobile; his cape swirling out behind him dramatically. It really was quite impressive, Harlow thought to himself. Sam was going to be so surprised when he told him who he got to meet today. He only hoped that there would be an opportunity for them to meet the Boy Wonder. He scrubbed his head as he watched the Batmobile turn and race away with Batman's precious clues.

"Okay, people," Harlow yelled. "Quit your gawking and get to work! This case isn't going to solve itself!"


	8. Its a Surprise

It was a long, miserable day for Robin. The bespectacled man had refused him painkillers while his assistants had worked on him, and then as well for hours afterward. He had been delirious when later the blond assistant had returned to give him an injection; the man had told him it was Ketamine.

The name of the drug meant something to him, but the pain and his delirium had prevented him from making a connection right away. But as the drug began to work, Robin remembered its use as a veterinary sedation/painkiller before slipping into a state between consciousness and unconsciousness.

When the drug started wearing off enough that the Boy Wonder could begin putting two thoughts together, he discovered that, while he was still strapped to the chair, he had also been stripped of his gown. One lone sheet had been tossed over him for modesty's sake. He supposed he should be grateful for that small bit of kindness. He wondered if the blond man had been responsible as he faded in and out.

Discomfort brought him back to awareness some time later. Robin couldn't decide if it were the same day or a new one. There were no windows in the small laboratory. The blond man was injecting something into his IV line. Robin hoped the drug wasn't more of the Ketamine because while it helped his pain, he didn't like losing awareness of what went on around him. Like coming around to discover you're attached to an IV . . .

"Just a painkiller this time," the man whispered.

Movement out of his line of sight meant that either the woman or the bespectacled man were in the room. Robin blinked slowly, but didn't speak for fear of getting the male assistant into trouble. He glanced over to see the woman preparing equipment he hadn't remembered being present before.

As the painkiller began to work, Robin felt his mind beginning to clear more than it had since he first woke up in the cage. The bespectacled man entered the room, walking over to look down at him. The man frowned in displeasure.

"Why haven't you finished prepping him? We are on a schedule, you know," he said to his two assistants.

"Just finishing up, Dr. Crane," the woman answered. She turned pulling a small monitor closer to him, and began carefully placing electrodes on Robin's chest.

Crane? Robin frowned as he stared up at the doctor. Knowledge tickled his brain. He _had_ seen this man before, hadn't he? Crane . . . The name was familiar to him. He would have thought that recognizing someone would have made him feel better, but Robin's heart started beating a little faster instead.

The woman flicked a switch, and the machine attached to the electrodes began beeping. "The EKG is up and running," she said unnecessarily.

Crane narrowed his eyes at the monitor. "Pulse is a little up, but still well within beginning parameters. You gave him something for the pain?"

The blond man answered. "Yes sir, Dr. Crane. He shouldn't be feeling any of his injuries."

"His face has more color in it now that he has been given blood. What's his blood pressure?" Crane asked.

The cuff on his other arm inflated. A few moments later, the woman announced, "Ninety-eight over sixty."

"Good," Crane turned toward the blond man. "Jeremy, are the drugs in order? We won't have time to go searching for them once they are needed."

Jeremy, the blond man, answered. "I have several syringes already prepared for you, Dr. Crane. Several of each, in fact, and sorted according to purpose."

"Make certain," Crane warned. "It would not do to give the subject a sedative when Vasopressin or Epinephrine is called for. We will need to be quick, and we cannot afford mistakes at this juncture."

"I marked each clearly," Jeremy assured him.

"You have the defibrillator close at hand, Lydia," Crane asked the woman.

"Ready when we need it, Doctor," Lydia, the dark-haired woman, told him as she slid a cap over Robin's head. As Crane looked over the preparations, Jeremy moved to help Lydia attach electrodes to the cap.

"What are you doing," Robin asked.

"Hooking you up to an EEG machine so we can read your brainwaves," Jeremy answered without thinking.

Lydia glared at him. Crane looked back at his male assistant over his shoulder.

"Why are you talking to the subject, Jeremy," he asked.

"I-I was just answering the kid's question," he stammered.

"Would you ask a rat a question during an experiment? Or perhaps in this case, I should say, _bird_, hm?"

"Uh, well, no," Jeremy answered. "But this isn't an animal . . ."

"I beg to differ," Crane told him as he began setting out his own implements; numerous small plastic vials, a set of glasses, and earphones.

"I . . . um," Jeremy glanced back and forth between a curiously calm Crane and an infuriated Lydia. "Okay," he muttered, lowering his head and keeping his eyes on his actions as he continued to attach the electrodes to the cap.

A few minutes more, and another machine hummed to life. A scratching noise appeared. "The EEG is up and running, Doctor Crane."

Crane took note of the scrawls that indicated brain activity. He pulled out a penlight and began flashing it in Robin's eyes, watching both the eyes dilate and contract, and compared the reactions to the EEG readout. Next, he snapped his fingers next to one of Robin's ears, and then the other, again comparing reaction to the unexpected sound and the readout. He spent several more minutes checking for the child's reaction to various stimuli and then his reflex response before he was satisfied.

He looked at his assistants and smiled. "I believe we are finally ready to begin."

* * *

Jeremy wasn't happy. He suddenly wished he had refused when offered an opportunity to work with Dr. Crane. In his favor, however, Jeremy hadn't recognized the man without his infamous mask, nor was he able to put the name to the villain at the time. He had just been so desperate.

He had only a semester left to go before receiving his degree in biochemistry with a minor in psychology. Just four more classes . . . But the money had dried up. The terms of his scholarship had been for him to maintain a 3.2 average, and his psychology professor had given him a D for his final essay exam, citing that his conclusions were off. That essay had been worth an entire third of his grade and his caused his GPA to drop to 3.0 at the end of the semester.

He needed the money to continue. Dr. Crane had offered him enough to pay not only his last semester, but for his books as well with a little left over. He had promised him a bonus if Crane's research paid off. He said he had sponsors; generous donations from those who were looking to profit from his research and who would be ultimately purchasing the final product at the end of his clinical trials. Dr. Crane bragged that he would have enough funds soon to pay for all-new lab equipment and enough supplies to fund his research for the next ten years.

He had promised Jeremy a position in his new research laboratory once he had finished his degree. Things had seemed so promising . . . Until Crane had arrived two days ago, not with several research animals, but with a _human child_! And not just any child, but _Robin_!

He had already been confused and a little suspicious of the product that Crane was developing. He had seen some of the chemicals required in the formulation. Hallucinogens and dangerous stimulants were only part of it. By the time Jeremy had put two and two together and realized who exactly he was working for, he was in too deep. The Scarecrow would kill him if he left or attempted to betray him. Lydia, the other lab assistant, would likely help him do it.

But for the boy, Jeremy might have continued out of fear and used the man's threat to justify his staying. But for the boy, he instead decided to take action. It wasn't much, but then again, Jeremy was no hero. He might not even be able to save the child, but he hoped to. And if he couldn't? Well, if he couldn't prevent the boy's death, he hoped, at least, that Robin's death wouldn't be in vain.

Jeremy patted the tiny notebook in his lab coat's breast pocket. In it, he kept track of all he noticed and observed. The chemicals Crane was using, the formula for the deadly product he was engineering, the test parameters and eventually results, but most important of all were Jeremy's notes on what he hoped would be a cure.

Some of what he kept track of was written quickly and on the sly, but unfortunately that made his scribbles and scrawls into a form of chicken scratch that few could easily decipher. He would need to transcribe it later for the sake of those he hoped would use his work to help those that the Scarecrow and his investors and buyers planned to victimize.

"Jeremy," Crane called. "I need your assistance with the first step."

"Of course, Doctor," he said. "What would you have me do?"

Crane opened a cabinet door and pulled out three small rebreathers; handing his assistants two and putting the third on himself. As Jeremy and Lydia put on their masks and tightened the straps to create an airtight seal, Crane palmed one of his plastic vials.

"Lydia will continue to monitor the subject's vitals," Crane instructed. "I need you to help me administer the dosage. Follow my instructions to the letter and don't speak until I give you the word." Jeremy moved to the head of the chair, above Robin as Crane indicated.

"All right, Jeremy," Crane began. "I need you to cover the subject's mouth with one hand tightly; holding his jaw shut. With your other hand, you will pinch the subject's nose."

Jeremy blinked. "B-but he'll suffocate . . ."

"When I tell you to, you will release your hold on the subject's nose. In this way, he will be more inclined to inhale the entire dosage without fuss. Afterward, I will signal when it is safe to remove the rebreather." Crane explained. "But you both will remain silent until after I introduce the triggers."

"Tr-triggers?" Jeremy had seen some of the plans Crane had left out on his desk once. He had an idea what the trigger would initiate, but he wanted Crane to verify his theory.

"This is a time-delayed reaction. Once the trigger or triggers are introduced into the subject's subconscious, the subject will continue on healthy indefinitely until the trigger has been activated."

"And then what happens?" Jeremy asked, ignoring Lydia's glares. She didn't want him questioning the doctor.

Crane's eyes crinkled behind his glasses; the only indication that the man was smiling behind his mask. "Oh, I would hate to give away the surprise."


	9. Timing is Everything

**Warning: Language and disturbing images**

* * *

Robin's eyes widened as Jeremy's hand clamped over his mouth. He jerked his head trying to dislodge it, but the young man was much stronger than he was; especially since his diet had consisted of whatever had gone through his IV earlier that day. He hadn't eaten in two days, and after his vomiting episodes, whatever desire they might have had to feed him likely disappeared.

His heart rate increased dramatically during his struggle; the beeping from the EKG rapidly increasing in tempo. He whined until Jeremy's free hand came up to pinch his nostrils, sealing off his airway. His body jerked and his head twisted in an effort to get free. He knew they weren't planning on suffocating him; he had heard them talking! But it didn't matter to his lungs that were beginning to scream in need as his body thrashed helplessly against his restraints and Crane's assistant's hands.

_Oh God! OhGodohGodohGodohGod_ . . . Suffocation _Hurt_!

Black spots were appearing before his eyes when the fingers released his nose. At the same time, there was a snap, but Robin didn't care as he greedily sucked oxygen into his lungs and with it Crane's powder. It burned his nostrils, making his eyes water, but it was impossible for him to not breathe it in. He was aware of Crane finally removing the powder capsule, but not until after Robin had inhaled it all.

Earphones covered his ears next; not playing any music or recording, but silencing the world. All he could hear was his own pounding heart beat. A visor slid over his eyes. A rapid, strobe light flashed before his eyes. An image flickered in between the flashes of light too quickly for Robin to recognize or acknowledge consciously, but his subconscious brain saw it; recorded it. Some tiny portion of his brain suggested he close his eyes to the light, but when he tried to, he wasn't able.

The pressure across his mouth vanished at some point, and as he caught his breath, he calmed. The flashing lights were lulling him into a trance of sorts. The tension drained from him.

Robin wasn't aware of the moment that sound reentered his world. Neither did he notice when the visor was removed. The removal of the strobe light didn't stop the lights from appearing before him. He lay in the trance for an unspecified length of time before slowly he began to recognize the cabinets in front of his chair as cabinets, and the curious murmur of voices in the background he realized was a conversation in progress.

* * *

Crane continued recording his observations into the small device in his hand.

"After inhalation of approximately 500 milligrams of Death by Fear toxin, noticeable relaxation of subject's body happened approximately ten minutes later. Trance began within the next five minutes. Trigger was subliminally imbedded in the subject's subconscious over the course of the next ten minutes, making the entire process approximately twenty-five minutes from the introduction of the drug until the subliminal process was complete. And extra ten minutes is required before conscious activity is restored. Subject appears to have little memory of what has just occurred. Countenance shows marked confusion, but little to no distress despite the method of administration.

"Subject will be allowed thirty minutes to recuperate before the second phase of the test begins." Crane turned off the recorder, and then shut the video camera, set up near the foot of the chair, off via remote control.

"Take a break," he told his assistants. "Be back here in twenty-five minutes."

As Crane walked out of the door, Lydia turned toward Jeremy snarling. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you? Do you want him to shoot you, or perhaps you would just prefer to take the subject's place?"

Jeremy glared back. "The subject is a _kid_. Why don't you call him that?"

"Are you going soft all of a sudden?" She gaped at him.

"Soft? Where have you been for the past two days? Have you not paid attention while I poked, prodded, injected, inserted, and washed the '_subject_' down like he's a used car at a fucking car wash?"

"You are going to get yourself killed," Lydia told him from between clenched teeth before storming out of the room.

Jeremy waited several minutes to see if anyone returned and then moved around to the side of the chair. Robin didn't acknowledge his presence; just stared off into space. He yanked out his notebook and scribbled down what had just occurred. It was garbled at best, but he couldn't take the chance on being caught writing it down.

When he finished, he put the notepad away, and tapped the boy's cheek.

"Hey, are you in there," he asked.

Robin blinked several times. Behind his mask, his lovely, blue eyes slid over to rest on the assistant's face.

Jeremy glanced at the door, and then leaned close. "I'm sorry, Robin. There's no way to get you out of here without both of us getting caught. You're going to have to bear up under the testing until I can figure out a way to contact the Batman."

Robin frowned at him.

"What? You don't remember the Batman," Jeremy asked, alarmed. "Ah, man! I knew this was all happening too fast. Crane should have given you a week, at least, to recover from that concussion. Listen," he said. "The Batman is a good guy dressed in a scary costume. You and he go way back, I'm sure. You hang around with him and stuff; you know, taking out bad guys and criminal sorts. I don't know if he's your dad or not, but I think he cares about you. I bet he's looking for you right now!"

He sighed. "Look, it's going to get rough here for a while. I'm really sorry about that," Jeremy apologized again. "But if I get myself killed, you are _screwed_, little man! I promise to do what I can to get you out of this alive, okay? It may not seem like it at times, but I'm on your side. You're going to get out of this," he promised. "It won't be today though. Maybe tomorrow . . . I don't know. Just don't give up hope, all right? And if you can manage it, try not to give me away."

As Robin watched him, Jeremy could see the gears in his head working. The boy slowly nodded. "You are going to get Batman," he asked.

"Do you remember him yet?"

"I think . . . Maybe." The boy didn't sound very sure of himself at the moment.

"That's okay," Jeremy told him. "You'll probably remember him when you see him. He's going to come and save you."

Robin scowled a bit, looking every bit as confused as before, but a hell of a lot more determined, and a lot less scared. Jeremy thought it was easier to bear up against hardship and be brave when you could see a light at the end of even a very dark tunnel.

He turned to look at the door when he heard footsteps coming nearer. "Get ready for phase two, kid. Whatever that entails . . ."

Jeremy moved over to the far counter to wash his hands and splash cold water on his face. He was toweling off when the door opened and Crane entered with Lydia. Crane glanced at him, but Jeremy thought he didn't appear to be suspicious. Lydia must have not said anything to the man yet. She, however, glared a warning as she moved back to her previous position.

Crane slapped his hands together and smiled; full of energy. "Shall we start phase two?"

Jeremy moved back to his place without comment.

"Normally, I would have preferred waiting a day or so, but my clients are waiting to hear the results by tomorrow evening. That means we have a lot to do tonight and tomorrow morning."

Jeremy glanced at Lydia as he asked his question. "Are we pulling an all-nighter, then?"

Crane grinned at him. "I appreciate your dedication, Jeremy, but that won't be necessary. If we get two tests in tonight, and come back bright and early in the morning for the rest, we should be able to catch a few hours of shut eye in between."

Jeremy tilted his head. "How many tests are you planning to do?"

"Three for certain, perhaps four," Crane said. He turned on the camera from where he stood.

"We are preparing to begin phase two," he told the camera. "In this, I will activate the trigger and we will observe the subject."

Crane held up a photograph in front of the camera, using his body to block the image from the boy. "Trigger number one."

Jeremy's eyes bulged as he caught a glimpse of the image in the photograph. It was a close-up of the Batman from the shoulders up. How the hell did Crane even _find_ that picture? Photos of the Batman were rare, and never were they so clear as this one. It was almost as if he posed for it.

"Where did you find that," he couldn't stop himself from asking.

"Jeremy," Lydia snapped at him.

Crane didn't seem to mind answering, however. "Just a little something I managed to pick up the last time I visited Arkham; taken from the security footage."

But how did the Scarecrow manage to get security footage stock? It was a question he didn't get answered for Crane turned to his test subject at that moment, and raised the photograph up to the boy's face.

The reaction was immediate!

* * *

Robin jerked away from the photograph; horror written all over his features. His scream was one of abject terror that raised the hairs on Jeremy's arms and the back of his neck. His heart rate rose at an alarming rate, and the boy began to hyperventilate within three minutes. By the five minute mark his heart sinus rhythm began to vacillate dangerously as he entered cardiac arrest.

Crane slowly lowered the photograph. This was better than he could have hoped. An extremely healthy, if a little weak, ten-year old boy was literally being frightened to death from naught but a picture.

Death by fright, on demand. Wonderful . . .

His assistants jumped into action. Lydia reached for the defibrillator as Jeremy jumped to lower the head of the chair to a reclined position. Crane waved them away.

"No," he said. "Not yet!"

Robin's eyes rolled back as he lost consciousness. His body seized as his muscles seemed to lock into place.

Jeremy goggled. "If we don't regulate the rhythm with the defibrillator _now_, we won't be able to later. Chance of survival lowers significantly if the patient, uh, I mean, if the subject flatlines!"

"Yes, yes," Crane soothed his assistant absently, his mind on other things. "I am aware of all of that," he said as his gaze traveled between his watch and his subject.

"Doctor," Jeremy reminded him. "Timing is everything here."

"I agree," he answered as he waited . . . And waited.

The rapid heartbeat on the monitor suddenly flattened as the machine's alarm went off with a high-pitch, monotonous screech. The boy's body collapsed.

"_Now_," Crane yelled, and threw himself forward beginning the chest compressions for CPR. "Lydia, start ventilating him with the bag valve mask!"

Lydia hurried to position herself at the boy's head with the mask; squeezing the bag rhythmically at the proper intervals. "The subject's BP is dropping!"

"Dr. Crane, do you want Epinephrine or the Vasopressin," Jeremy's hand hovered over the syringes.

"Begin with epinephrine; 2.5 ml. every three minutes," Crane barked.

* * *

Jeremy grabbed the correct syringe and stabbed it in the IV port cannula. He grabbed the next two doses, keeping an eye on both the heart monitor and the clock; he waited.

_Come on, Robin_, he begged silently. _Don't give up yet_!

* * *

**I spent some time researching this, but I'm not sure I got anything actually _right_ . . . So, any medical mistakes found are all on me. All that measuring meds by weight is HARD! Oooh, and this will get better as we go! **


	10. Help From Above

Dick gasped for breath as the room spun around him. As the room slowed, he suddenly realized that he was free! His wrists and ankles were free from the straps that had bound him. He stumbled a bit from vertigo, but he quickly regained his balance.

He was facing the door to the hallway. A bright light was shining beneath the bottom edge. It must be high noon, he thought, wondering where the time had gone. He had been under the impression that it had been late afternoon, but a few minutes ago. But time no longer mattered anymore because there was no longer anything standing between him and freedom!

Uh . . . Except maybe his clothes.

_Whoa_! Not only was he was standing there naked, he realized, putting his hands up to his face; he wasn't even wearing his _mask_ anymore! Anyone looking at him would be able to see him as _Dick Grayson_ instead of Robin!

Sounds were coming to him, muffled as they had been when he was just beginning to regain his hearing. There wasn't any high-pitched whine this time, however. Curious, he turned his head to the source of the sounds and jumped back, startled.

That was Jonathon Crane! What was the Scarecrow doing here?

Dick blinked. It looked like he was doing CPR! He and those other people appeared to be fighting to save someone's life. But Scarecrow didn't save lives! He tended to take them. As he moved closer, Dick found that he recognized the other two people present, although he knew that they were strangers. He didn't really know much about them, only their names; that and that Lydia was the mean one while Jeremy seemed to be okay.

But who were they working on? Dick stepped closer, trying not to get in anyone's way. There was a boy on the chair; he was strapped down much as Dick had been. He wanted to push everyone away from the boy so that he could save him, and they could both escape, but when Dick walked around the chair . . .

"What? I- I don't understand," Dick cried. He found himself staring at . . . _Robin?_

That was _Robin_ in the chair! He was still strapped down, and was wearing his mask as Crane pushed on his chest rhythmically. But it couldn't be because _he_ was Robin, and _he_ was standing right there. No, it couldn't be him, except the boy in the chair had the same scar on his side as Dick did. He had gotten it as Robin when a mugger had gotten lucky, and nicked him good with his blade. Alfred had given him five stitches that night, and Bruce had grounded him for being reckless.

Dick looked down at his own side, b-but the scar wasn't there anymore.

"I don't understand," Dick wailed again, uncaring if Scarecrow heard him. But no one seemed to notice him; everyone carrying on as if he weren't even in the room.

Unfortunately, he suddenly thought that maybe he _did_ understand now. He looked at the heart monitor and saw the flat line.

So, he really _was_ dead! Then, that meant that the light in the hallway . . . Dick walked back around the chair. It was still there! He understood now that he was supposed to walk through that door; into the light. He took a hesitant step forward, and stopped.

But . . . What about Bruce? What about Alfred? What would happen to them now that he was gone? Who would be there to make sure that Batman made it home every night, if not Robin?

He took a step closer to the door, but looked back at his body. It looked so pale and so frail. He had never realized he was as skinny as all that before. Then again, he hadn't eaten for a while either, so of course, he looked skinny! But it wasn't anything that a few days with Alfred's cooking wouldn't cure.

Dick rubbed his chest. Wasn't he supposed to feel calm and happy? If he walked through that door, wouldn't he be with his parents again? So, why was he feeling fear, and worse, regret? Because he wasn't finished here yet? Because he didn't want to leave Bruce all alone again?

Bruce had lost so much already. It wasn't fair that he should lose Dick, too! He would feel so guilty if it ended this way. Dick knew Bruce would blame himself for this, even though it was his own fault. If he had just left after setting the charges, but no, he had fooled around with that stupid, ungrateful rat until the Scarecrow had come and beaned him in the head with a microscope!

It was too late now, though, wasn't it? Sadly, Dick turned back toward the hallway, and nearly ran into another boy. This boy was as pale as he was, but he, at least, was wearing clothes! He had strawberry blond hair and brown eyes, and was wearing a green t-shirt and jeans; he looked close in age to Dick, maybe a little younger.

"Whoa! Hey," Dick said, startled by the boy's sudden appearance. "Wait! Can you see me?"

The boy nodded.

"Who are you," Dick asked.

The boy shook his head.

"What's the matter? Can't you talk?"

The boy shook his head, again. He then raised his arm and pointed back to the chair. Dick turned and looked at the scene behind him.

"Yeah, that's me," Dick admitted, reluctantly.

The boy touched Dick's shoulder, and remained pointing at his body. The boy's hand felt cold. Dick realized then that he was talking to a spirit rather than another child like him. That was odd, he thought, that Dick could feel the cold since both of them were dead. He couldn't help wondering if he felt cold to the boy's spirit as well.

"What are you trying to tell me," Dick asked. "That I should stay here? Do I even have a choice in the matter?"

The boy turned to face Dick directly. He nodded.

Dick blinked. "I do?"

Again the boy nodded. Dick took a couple of steps back to the chair. Funny, but going back this time felt like he was dragging his feet through ankle-deep mud. He stopped by Crane. The man was smiling even as he kept forcing Robin's heart to beat. While Dick didn't want to die, and he particularly didn't want to leave Bruce, he wasn't especially fond of where his body currently resided.

Dick swallowed. He turned back to the spirit, half expecting him to be gone, but he remained where Dick had left him.

"See this man? He's a very bad man," Dick told the other child. To his surprise, the spirit nodded. "You already know that, huh?" The spirit nodded again.

"Why can't you talk to me," he wanted to know.

The spirit smiled sadly and shrugged his shoulders. Then his arm rose once more as he pointed to the pitiful, little lump on the chair that was Robin. Crane was using a lot of force in his compressions. Dick shuddered to think what that was going to feel like.

He swung back around, surprised that he was feeling so conflicted. Just a moment ago he was sad that he was leaving. "You said that I have a choice, right?"

The spirit looked sad, but nodded.

"If I go to the light, will I continue to feel sad and regretful? Or will I get to be with my parents, and be happy?"

The spirit looked over his shoulder at the light, smiling. He turned back to Dick, but didn't indicate if that meant the second option was correct. His smile became sad then, and he shrugged.

'You _want_ me to go back, though, don't you," Dick asked.

The boy pointed to the chair, and nodded.

Dick looked back and Crane, and felt dread. If he went back, it would be to pain and fear. The past two days had felt like an eternity, even though he hadn't been conscious for most it. He remembered feeling alone, confused, and frightened, although right now, it felt more like it had happened to someone else, and his memories were secondhand.

"Is it _important_ that I go back?"

A nod.

"Will the Batman rescue me?" Did the spirit even understand who Batman was?

The spirit pointed, but not at his body this time, but at Dick himself. He nodded.

"He will." Relief flooded him.

The spirit walked closer to him and touched his finger to Dick's bare chest.

"What? I don't understand. You said Batman would rescue me, right? So, what more is there?" Dick stared at the spirit.

The spirit tilted his head, and touched his finger to Dick chest a second time, and then back to the chair. He smiled.

"Okay, I get that I'm supposed to go back, but I still don't understand." Dick muttered. "So, how do I do this?

The spirit moved closer, picked up Dick's hand and set it on his body's shoulder. Dick gasped as his hand moved through the flesh. It felt almost like an electrical shock; like a rush that traveled up his arm and into his chest. His heart thumped painfully once; twice!

"Ow! That hurt!"

The steady line on the heart monitor jumped; beeping once, then twice.

Crane, his voice still muffled like behind a wall, called out. "There! It's working! Jeremy, give him another dose of Epinephrine! You aren't getting away from me that easy, boy!"

His words made Dick shiver. Was he really going to do this?

Jeremy depressed the plunger on yet another syringe of the hormone, sending it racing into Robin's bloodstream. A cool wash seemed to travel up his arm at the action. Dick looked at the growing number of syringes on the floor at their feet.

He looked back. The spirit was still there. He hadn't left him.

"I-I'm scared," Dick admitted quietly. The spirit moved closer, and picked up Dick's free hand; just holding it in his own.

"I wish you could stay with me," he muttered, embarrassed. He was Robin, for heaven's sake! He wasn't supposed to feel scared and alone, but what he was supposed to feel and what Dick was actually feeling were two very different things.

The spirit smiled a little sadly, squeezed Dick's hand in his very cold one, and then pointed once more toward Robin lying on the chair.

"Okay, I get it." Dick breathed deep, summoning what courage he had left. "I can do this. Although, I'm really hoping that that squeeze meant you were going to hang around for a while."

Dick turned around, and before he could change his mind, hopped up on the chair and lay back; his spirit sliding into and combining with his body until there was only Robin.

* * *

Robin's body jerked and he gasped as his heart started beating again. The pain was incredible! It felt like an elephant had been jumping rope on his chest! He blinked his eyes open, and looked around.

Crane's face was merely inches from his own as the mad doctor shone a light first into one eye, and then into the other. He glimpsed Lydia above his head for a second as she pulled the mask away from his face, and then replacing it with another. He felt the cool movement of pure oxygen flowing from it. His eyes flitted to Jeremy's. The blond man grinned at him in relief for a moment before the smile slid away as if it had never been.

He shuddered, and his head lolled to the side. He felt so weak! Even that small movement felt like the way Robin thought moving a mountain might be like. In the corner, a movement caught his eye; a shape in the shadows about the size of a boy.

The edges of his lips turned up, and Robin let his eyes close finally.

He wasn't alone anymore. He could do this . . . As long as he wasn't alone anymore.

* * *

**Awesome, right? Are you wondering why it was so important that Dick return? Hm, more on that later . . . **


	11. Clues

The clues were adding up. Bruce looked at the computer screen. The animal hairs he had found belonged not just to a dog, but two dogs and one cat; a German Shepherd, a Siberian Husky, and a Balinese Siamese. An odd mixture to find in a stolen medical supply van, he thought.

The vial he had discovered in the van's glove compartment, too, had been something one wouldn't expect to find in a van that specialized in the delivery of medical supplies of the human variety. His analysis of the vial's contents came up with Domitor, a short-term sedative popular with veterinary hospitals.

The STR analysis of the blood found in the van had been completed. It helped save time when he already knew the victim's identity and a copy of his DNA was already on file. It simply became a matter of determining if the DNA in the blood he had collected from the back of the white van matched that of Dick Grayson. The computer results were done in record time, and the resulting match produced a variety of emotional responses in Bruce.

All of that blood in the van had been Robin's. It had been a lot of blood to come from just one little boy. Bruce took a shaky breath as he stared at the screen that kept flashing 'MATCH' in front of him. What had Crane done to him?

The vast majority of him was pleased with the match; it meant he was on the right track and not following false leads, that he hadn't inadvertently started following a different white van after losing it on the traffic cams so many times. At the same time, part of him had almost hoped there was something else that accounted for the vast amount of blood he had found; that it hadn't been his boy that had lain helpless and injured in that van alone with a madman.

The pea gravel and mud had come from the area of the warehouse, while being conclusive evidence that this was the correct van, it didn't yield any new data that helped him discover where Robin was taken. The location where the van had been found told him more. But Bruce doubted that Crane bothered to kidnap Robin and take him all the way to Briar Ridge Mall's parking garage just to leave him there, hidden somewhere . . . Unless, however, the boy had . . . Bruce took a breath. Unless, that is, the boy had died during the trip.

He shook himself in an effort to rid his thoughts of this very unhelpful fear that tended to creep up on him in unguarded moments. If Robin had died, why bother moving his body? Why not leave it there in the van for the police to find?

Excect if Scarecrow had wanted to drive the Batman crazy . . . In that, he was doing a fantastic job. Bruce honestly didn't know if discovering Dick's body would be as mentally and emotionally as devastating as the never knowing; the always wondering, the endless searching. How long would it take him to admit the inevitable and give up? Bruce already knew the answer to that.

**_Never_**! He would _never_ give up searching; _never_ stop hoping! Not until he found his boy and brought him home, one way or another.

_God_! What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he separate himself from this case? He couldn't seem to maintain that calm, cool logic he needed if he were going to solve this and rescue Robin! Exhaustion he knew was part of the reason, but he couldn't bring himself to sleep more than twenty or thirty minutes while Robin was still missing; still in danger. He pulled up the security footage of the garage.

* * *

Dick found himself standing in front of the door to the lab again that evening with the same choice; to walk through or return to his body. The spirit still stood between him and the first choice. Dick looked behind him, at the three people fighting to bring him back to life. It was ironic since it was those three who had taken it from him in the first place.

"I don't understand, Spirit," Dick cried, tears streaking his face. "I went back last time only for this to happen again. _Why_ must I go back? Why is it important?"

The boyish spirit pointed to his wrist.

Dick frowned at the action. "What does that mean," he asked. "Time?"

The spirit nodded.

"My questions will be answered . . . in time?"

The spirit smiled and nodded again in that slow way that he did everything.

Dick sighed. That wasn't an answer . . . "I thought you said that Batman was coming to rescue me," he accused.

The spirit nodded.

"But _w__hen_? _When_ will he come?" Dick whined. He was feeling tired. With every step he took toward the door, he felt better. With every step he took back toward the living world, he felt exhaustion. "I want to go . . ."

The spirit raised his hands in a gesture that meant 'where'.

Dick wiped his eyes; his shoulders slumped. "Home," he finally answered. "I just want to go home."

The spirit looked a little sad as his arm rose; pointing back to the way that led to more pain, more suffering.

"If only you could tell me why returning is so important," Dick asked.

The spirit stared at him for a moment, and then slowly placed his hands on this chest above his heart.

"Heart . . . Do you mean 'love'?" Dick tilted his head in confusion.

The spirit nodded, his hands remained crossed over his heart.

"I must return because of '_love_'?"

The spirit looked determined. His hands rose in question again, then he pointed to Dick before his hands settled back over his heart. Dick frowned as he thought about what the spirit was trying to ask him.

"Who? . . . Are you asking me, 'who do I love'?"

The spirit nodded.

Dick looked at the door. "I love my parents."

The spirit frowned and shook his head. He reformed the same question, and then pointed back to Dick's body.

"You mean, who do I love that is still living." Dick surmised after a moment. "Bruce," he answered immediately. "Alfred."

The spirit smiled and pointed back toward the chair.

"You're saying that I need to return because of Bruce and Alfred?" Dick surmised.

The spirit smiled, nodding.

"It's important to them that I return?" Dick wanted clarification.

The spirit smiled, nodding and pointed at the chair.

Dick turned to look at the people working over his body. Only one of them wasn't an enemy. At least, Dick _thought_ that Jeremy wasn't his enemy, but sometimes it was hard to be sure. He acted like he wanted to help him, and even told Dick so earlier that evening when they were alone for a few minutes. But could he trust him – really trust him?

"Is Jeremy my friend," he asked, looking over at the boy at his side.

The spirit looked sad, but he nodded.

Dick looked back over his shoulder. The draw of the light was a little stronger this time, he noticed. But the spirit had told him that it was important to Bruce and Alfred that he return to the world of the living. He sighed. Only for Bruce was he contemplating this; Bruce and Alfred. Although, it hadn't even been a year since Bruce and Alfred had taken him in, they had become family in that time, and it hurt to think how upset they would be if Dick died before Batman could rescue him. Bruce, he knew, would take it hard. Returning for another round of torture at the hands of the Scarecrow wasn't the best idea he had ever had, but if it were important to Bruce, he would stay and endure a little while longer . . . Because what he had told the spirit was true. Dick loved him.

It was difficult moving back toward the chair. Like before, it felt as though he were moving through mud. It was a bit of a struggle; even more difficult than it had been the first time he chosen to return.

When he finally reached the chair, he looked at the spirit.

"You will stay with me, won't you? Like before? You won't leave?"

The spirit nodded.

"It was harder this time to return," Dick told him.

The spirit nodded; his mien serious.

"Will this happen again? Do you know?"

The spirit seemed to hesitate, and then nodded.

Dick sighed. "Will it get harder to return each time?"

The spirit nodded. He took Dick's hand in his cold one and squeezed.

"Okay," he said. "For Bruce." He hopped back onto the chair and settled back inside his body. The heart monitor beeped as the pulse returned.

* * *

The spirit released the boy's hand and backed away into the same corner as before. He couldn't stay and hold Dick's hand as much as he wanted to lend the other child support. The spirit was dead. Touching the boy's living flesh while he hovered so close to the veil would draw him back toward death, and the spirit needed the boy to survive. The spirit had already passed from the world, but he continued to refuse the draw of the light for his own purpose . . . His own mission.

He wouldn't be able to do this for much longer, however. Not without risking becoming a wraith. Eventually, the light would no longer appear to him. Eventually, if he continued to refuse its draw, the spirit would wither and remain permanently in this realm of in between. The spirit's eyes were drawn to the one called Crane. As he had determined before, it was worth the risk.

* * *

Bruce finished breaking into the police computer system. He pulled up the file on the stolen van, and sure enough, there had been other items listed as stolen as well. The crooks had broken into the medical supply warehouse and stolen several pieces of equipment, apparently loading it into one of the company's vans, and driven off.

Bruce wondered why Crane needed a defibrillator, an EKG, and an EEG. The possible answers chilled his blood. Making a copy of the report, he returned to scanning the video to the parking garage.

Although he had asked for the video feed from all the security cameras in the garage, he focused his attention on just three; The two cameras on the level where the van was found, and the one that monitored the vehicles entering and leaving the parking garage.

His eyes traveled to the clock. He had been at this for hours already. Robin was running out of time. Bruce took another sip of the coffee that Alfred brought to him on a regular basis. Even with the steady influx of caffeine to his system, Bruce's vision was beginning to blur. He rubbed them. Blinking hard as a wave of exhaustion rolled over him, he tried to continue.

"How is it coming, sir?"

Alfred's voice coming from over his shoulder startled him. How was it that Alfred had managed to slip on him? Although the butler could be impressively silent when the mood struck him, it was seldom that the elder man could sneak up on him like that; not impossible, but certainly not often . . .

"_Alfred_!"

"Master Bruce, you've been awake for the better part of three days. You need to rest, or you won't be in any shape to help Master Richard when the time comes."

"Alfred, I can't give up now," Bruce had to stop to stifle a yawn. This was ridiculous! He had stayed up for longer than this while on JLA missions. It was difficult, but the Batman had conditioned himself to remain alert and in peak performance even during long periods without sleep.

"Perhaps if you would just lie down for a couple of hours, you would feel more the thing," Alfred crooned, pulling a groggy Bruce from the chair. He began leading him over to the beds in the medical bay. They weren't anywhere near the comfort level of the Master's king-size mattress upstairs, but they were far better than a chair.

"Wait!" Bruce ground to a halt. "The coffee!" He turned startled eyes toward his faithless servant. "You drugged the coffee, didn't you?"

Alfred sighed. "I repeat, you will do Master Richard no good if you cannot function above the level of a coma patient. It was only a mild sedative. I will wake you in a few short hours. In the meantime, you will get some much needed rest, and I will continue to search the security videos for signs of Robin's kidnappers."

"Alfred . . ." Bruce yawned again, this one so huge that his jaw cracked.

"I promise, sir. I will wake you immediately upon finding anything the least bit significant."

Bruce sat on the bed that was little more than a cot, and blinked owlishly at the elder man. "You are ruthless, Alfred. I had no idea . . ."

Alfred pushed his charge back onto the bed, pausing to take off his shoes before drawing a blanket up to Bruce's chin. "Yes, indeed. It is a good thing that I am disinclined toward villainy, sir, or else I do believe me capable of giving even the Batman a run for his money."

"Hm, and I do have a lot of money," Bruce murmured as his eyes drooped shut. He startled awake briefly to grab Alfred's sleeve as the butler started to turn away. "Alfred. You promise to wake me if . . ."

"Yes, Master Bruce," The manservant assured him. "Immediately."

"Don't let me sleep too long!" Bruce slurred this command. "Three hours, Alfred. No more than three hours." Bruce's eyes shut on this, and he was asleep in seconds.

"Of course, sir," Alfred said quietly as he moved to resume the search for his youngest charge.

* * *

****Ah, the things we are willing to endure for love . . .** I plan to put up another chapter this evening and again tomorrow. I hope you are enjoying the story so far.  
**


	12. The Message

Jeremy reentered the laboratory thirty minutes after they had finished the last of the clean up. It was very late. The testing had gone on far longer than originally intended. Instead of two, they had complete all four. It had been disturbing to watch Crane struggle to hold on to what was left of his sanity after each test was completed. The man had left the building practically dancing on a giddy high. Even Lydia had appeared uncomfortable and vaguely concerned with the man's glee. Luckily for Jeremy, she had left shortly after the doctor.

The building housed twelve men, but there were more about somewhere; coming and going mysteriously about Crane's business. He didn't know how the doctor found the men or even how he convinced them to work for him, and Jeremy had no desire to ask one of them to find out. Perhaps he lied to them or misrepresented himself as he had to Jeremy . . . Or perhaps the men were simply evil or mad like the man they worked for. That would make sense, he supposed; like attracting like.

Either way, he didn't want anyone knowing what he was about to do.

Jeremy looked at the cage across from him. Robin looked even smaller and more fragile than he had the day that Crane had carried him in three days before although the child had impressed them all with his strength and resilience. Crane considered his tests a success, although he still had a couple of more tests planned for the morrow. Honestly, Jeremy couldn't believe the kid had survived the ones they had done on him tonight. Each time it had taken a bit longer to bring the kid back. Jeremy was certain Robin had more than one fractured rib as a result of numerous attempts at CPR, and wouldn't be surprised if the boy's heart was permanently damaged.

Tonight had been all about the method of delivery and how quickly the trigger had been programmed. The first test had been the powder administered to the body through inhalation. The second had been a gaseous form, again inhaled into the body. The third and fourth tests, which had been originally planned to have taken place tomorrow, had been through ingestion and injection.

Injection, of course, had been the fastest, gaseous, a close second, and ingestion, third. Crane had spoken of doing more tests on new subjects to verify his findings. He was worried that Robin's initial exposure had made him more susceptible to the others, and the results were somehow skewed. Jeremy wasn't so sure that was the case necessarily, but Crane was insistent that more test subjects were to be found.

He worried that Crane would show up tomorrow morning with more victims in tow. And if he had more subjects, what would happen to Robin? If the boy lost his value, what need was there to keep him alive? Jeremy already figured out that Robin was going to die. Crane had no intention of ever letting the boy go. Not that he would last long out there. Each test had had its own trigger embedded in the boy's subconscious.

Time wasn't supposed to be a factor. The trigger could be activated years later, if the victim hadn't inadvertently done himself in first by accident. Robin wouldn't be safe from his without isolating himself from the world. That last trigger was particularly worrisome, although it wouldn't matter if he couldn't warn Batman that he himself was one of the four.

Jeremy had expected Robin to be asleep. He had been completely exhausted by each of the times he had 'died' and each subsequent resurrection, but that apparently wasn't the case. The boy was talking to himself. Jeremy frowned, and stepped closer.

"Will it be soon," the child asked; his voice weak and pain-filled.

Jeremy glanced to the dark corner where Robin had directed the question, expecting to discover that the Batman had finally discovered where his partner was taken. But there was nothing there.

"That's good," Robin continued, his breathing sounding a bit labored. "Because I don't think I can do this many more times. This last time, I almost didn't make it back."

The child's words made him blink. A shiver ran up his back. What was that saying? Like someone had walked over his grave?

"Robin?"

The boy gasped, and turned his head toward him.

"Robin?" Jeremy spoke to him as he moved to the cage. "Who are you talking to, buddy?"

Robin hesitated before answering the lab assistant.

"Nobody," he said, sending an apologetic glance in the spirit's direction. The man wouldn't believe him anyway.

"Hm," Jeremy squatted down next to him. "How are you feeling?"

Robin snorted, and then coughed painfully.

"Ow," he whined. He didn't like sounding like a frightened child in front of strangers, but at the moment, that was exactly what he was.

"Oh, man, I am so sorry."

Robin rolled his eyes at the man. "I'd rather you go find Batman than standing around here feeling sorry for me."

Jeremy, at least, looked uncomfortable. "Actually, buddy, that's what I'm hoping to do right now. But I wanted to check on you first; make sure you were all right before I left."

"Yeah. It wouldn't do to bring the Bat back here only to find a corpse. He's not exactly the forgiving type," the boy joked morbidly.

"You're not going to die," Jeremy promised. "I've been working on a cure for Crane's Death by Fear toxin."

"Then what are you waiting for," he asked. "Give it to me."

"Ah, yeah, about that," Jeremy looked away. "I haven't mixed it up yet. Just came up with the formula. I'd be afraid someone here would walk in, kill me, and then destroy the antidote and my notes."

"Could you take me with you, at least?"

Jeremy stuck his hand through the bars and touched his head. "There is no way to get you through the gauntlet of Crane's men. Besides, you need to rest first. I don't want to jostle you too much this soon after . . . Well, you know, afterward."

Robin sighed. But Jeremy could see the lone tear than seeped from beneath the edge of the child's mask.

"Hey! Don't cry," Jeremy begged. "It'll just make you more dehydrated than you already are."

He stood and checked the saline drip connected to his IV. Crane had no plans to revive the boy after his last test, so he had no plans to feed the child either. The fluids had been Jeremy's decision. Lydia had argued with him over it, but Crane had shrugged and chose to allow his assistant to have his way. It meant that Crane would be able to perform a few more tests before the subject eventually succumbed to the inevitable.

"Do you need some painkiller," he asked. There was no one around to stop him at the moment. He automatically moved to the cabinet and withdrew a bottle of medicine and a fresh syringe.

"I need to sit up," Robin told him. "It hurts to breathe."

Jeremy came back and injected the painkiller into the port in the IV line. "I can't take the kind of time to move you right now. I still have to discover a way to find Batman and bring him here before morning. If Crane gets back first, you won't live for another day. Anyway, the medicine I just gave you should help you feel a bit more comfortable in the meantime. I promise I won't be gone too long. I'll be back by morning at the latest."

Robin looked in the direction of the spirit. The pale ghost of a boy stood nearby, watching carefully. Each time Robin had been brought back, the spirit had become more substantial. First he had been no more than an outline in the shadows; now, he looked to Robin as real as Jeremy. The only way that Robin could tell he was a spirit now was by the fact that no one else could see him.

"It's okay. I'm not alone anymore."

Jeremy blinked at him, looked over his shoulder in the direction of the spirit, and shivered.

"Yeah, okay. Like that's not creepy or anything," the lab assistant muttered. "I would really like to sedate you, but I'm not certain that would be a good idea suppressing your system like that. I'd be a little afraid that you might not wake up. That being the case, I need you to listen to me carefully. In case, Batman doesn't listen to me first, and just rushes in to save you, you need to promise me that you won't look at him."

Robin frowned. "I don't understand."

"I know you don't. I've been here too long already. I need to go right now if I have any hope to find the Batman, and get you out of here before Crane comes back. I'm going to try to warn him ahead of time, but just in case, I need you to promise me, okay? Just _promise_ me. You can't look at Batman. Not even a photograph of him right now. If you can convince him to take off his mask . . ."

"It's called a cowl," Robin supplied.

"Yeah, okay. You need to convince him to remove the cowl. Have him hide it or something until you get the antidote. Promise?"

"Okay, I don't think he'll do it, but I promise. But I still don't understand why it's an issue," Robin said.

Jeremy stood and walked to the door. "Hopefully, you won't need to. Try to rest up until then."

When he was gone, Robin looked back over at the spirit.

"Will it be tonight," he asked. Sometimes the spirit seemed disinclined to answer him.

The spirit looked at him and smiled, nodding.

"Thank goodness. I'll be glad when this ends," he said, resting his head on the bars and closing his eyes.

He didn't see the sadness that entered the spirit's eyes.

* * *

Bruce was watching the video. Alfred had kept his promise to wake him upon finding footage of the van being left. He had watched as Crane had met a couple of his men. They had removed several items, including the equipment that had been stolen, and placed them in an SUV. Then, when once everything had been transferred, one of his men had leaned in the van and carefully removed Robin.

It was easier in the garage to see what was happening. It was also easier to see the amount of blood Robin had been losing. It was indeed a head wound, but the severity of it was staggering!

Dear God, was he still alive?

The boy was completely limp and deeply unconscious by the look of it. Even as the Scarecrow's hired gun carried him, Robin's wound dripped blood steadily. Bruce hadn't remembered seeing the blood on the concrete. Someone would have noticed that amount of blood, so where did it . . .

The second man came around and sprayed the drops. Even at this distance and the middling quality of the video, Bruce could see the drops of blood begin bubbling at the chemical reaction. Within a few minutes nothing remained. So, why hadn't he bother to spray the van? Bruce's eyes narrowed as his mind worked out Crane's logic.

Crane obviously had the drops of blood erased to prevent anyone from calling the cops too early, and leading them to the van too soon. He had left the blood in the van as a taunt to the Batman. As far as taunts went, this one was excellent. Bruce was but minutes away from pulling his hair out in fear and frustration.

Pulling up the license plate of the black SUV, Bruce wasn't surprised to find that it, too, was stolen. It had only been reported missing yesterday, however, as the owner had been out of town for the past week. Batman did note that the owner of the vehicle's address was also out of the Briar Ridge community, a Gotham suburb. On a hunch, Bruce typed in a request for all the veterinary hospitals in Briar Ridge. Too many things were pointing in that direction.

"Sir, the Bat-signal is up," Alfred told him.

Bruce looked up, conflicted. Gordon wouldn't call him unless it was important, but time was of the essence for Robin. He had no doubt that Crane would kill his boy if Robin hadn't already succumbed to his injury. This was the third day since his abduction. The Batman had little time to find his injured bird, if he already wasn't too late.

Too many _if's . . . _

"Oh, dear Lord," Alfred gasped. He was staring at the video still up on the screen.

Bruce had paused it on the spot where Crane's thug was turning around with Robin in his arms. He craved the glimpse of the boy, and morbidly enough, even one of him looking so broken and fragile. That it caused him pain to seeing the result of his failure was nothing more than he deserved. But, seeing Alfred's anguish, he now regretted leaving the video up at all.

"D-do you think he's . . ." the older man couldn't finish the question.

Bruce quickly turned off the video. "No. No, I don't. Crane wouldn't bother with a corpse, Alfred. At the time this was taken, Robin was still alive."

"How . . . How can you tell, sir," Alfred asked, still staring at the now blank screen.

Bruce swallowed. "He was still bleeding. Rather a lot, in fact. If there were no heartbeat, the wound would not likely still be bleeding."

Alfred shook his head, turning away from the computer. "Yes. Yes, I should know that. I find that I don't know how to react; with hope or despair."

"I think that until we have proof one way or the other, we must continue to hold out hope. At least, that is what a very wise man once told me," Bruce stood and placed a supporting hand on the shoulder of the man who had been like a father to him. Much as Bruce was doing with Dick.

"Yes, sir. Very good, sir," Alfred said, resorting to his stiff British upbringing to pull him through these emotionally trying times.

"I wonder what Gordon wants," Bruce muttered. "I don't have the time to spare for anything more than this. Robin's life is hanging in the balance."

"Are you planning to ignore him?"

Bruce heaved a deep sigh, running hand through his hair. Instead of answering, he turned to the phone. He dialed the commissioner's cell phone. The man was likely on the roof rather than his office anyway.

"Gordon, here."

"Commissioner," Bruce dropped his voice an octave.

"Batman? How did you get my private cell number?"

"Is that really what you turned on the Bat-signal to discuss with me?" Bruce had no patience for this.

"Actually, no. I turned on the Bat-signal to give you a message from a Detective Harlow out of Briar Ridge," Gordon replied.

_Harlow_? _What a coincidence_ . . . "What's the message?" Bruce growled.

"He says someone contacted him with information on your missing person," Gordon told him. "I didn't hear anything about a missing person. Care to elaborate?"

Bruce's heart starting pounding. Did someone find Robin's body? "No, I don't. Did he give you a number in which to contact him?"

"He said to meet him at this address." Gordon rattled off the address. "I know this is out of my district, but do you need any backup?"

But Bruce had already hung up the phone. He turned and headed for the changing room at a run. "Alfred, send the list of all the veterinary hospitals in Briar Ridge with their addresses to the computer in the Batmobile."

"Some good news, Master Bruce?" Alfred called after him, desperate for some promising news for a change.

"I hope so, Alfred. Now would be a good time to resume praying." Bruce pulled the cowl over his face as he headed for the Batmobile, and Batman began to pray that tonight would be the night that he brought his lost chick home.


	13. Instructions

Batman checked the computer a second time, but the address he was to meet Harlow at was not the same as any veterinary hospital in Briar Ridge. As he pulled up to the meeting place it was already two-thirty in the morning. The night was flying past.

A chain convenience store . . . An odd location to meet. Perhaps Robin was being held in one of the buildings surrounding the store. He paused long enough to do a quick scan of the area for heat signatures. Nothing looked suspicious. No large gathering of people anywhere; most were sleeping in their beds. There was only one other car in the parking lot. Batman got out of the Batmobile. Harlow stepped out of the car and met Batman halfway.

"The instructions said there was a letter for you waiting with the clerk," Harlow said by way of greeting. "I only showed up in case this was a trap of some sort. The guy called the station looking for me, and the officer on duty said he was distraught enough that he suspected the guy was on the level, and called me at home."

"What did he tell you?" Batman glanced around him again. He felt like a target standing in the middle of the parking lot. He suspected Harlow felt much the same way.

"He said, no cops," the detective sighed. "That's why I'm here in my civvies and driving my own car. I have my piece tucked under my jacket and my cell phone in case we need backup. I have to say, he sounded on the level, but how do we know that the Scarecrow didn't have a gun to his head, you know?"

"All it said was to pick up a letter from the clerk," Batman asked, wanting clarification. If this was like normal kidnapping instructions, if he didn't get something right, the kidnapper might kill Robin.

"I swear," Harlow told him. "He said, he worked for Dr. Crane, but not by choice. He said if you wanted Robin back alive that you had to pick up this letter and follow it exactly. That, and no cops." Harlow scrubbed a hand over his short hair, and looked around. "He could be anywhere; in any one of these buildings watching us."

"I scanned the buildings for heat signatures," Batman volunteered. "Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. A lot of bodies, but none doing anything suspicious; sleeping, watching television, in the kitchen. You stay here in case the clerk is in on it. I'll be right back."

* * *

The clerk gaped at the Caped Crusader as he walked through the door. He appeared shocked, but not surprised to see him. His hand dropped below the level of the counter. Batman's hand dropped to his utility belt.

"Stop moving," Batman ordered, and the clerk froze. "You are supposed to have something for me."

The man gulped and nodded. "It . . . it's under the counter. I-I didn't think when he gave it to me, or I would have put it somewhere you could see it. I th-thought he was just kidding around with me. I honestly didn't expect you to sh-show up here."

Batman's eyes narrowed. He had been using the security mirrors to check the aisles for any nasty surprises. There weren't any.

"Place your hands above your head and step back," he ordered.

Once the clerk complied, Batman stepped behind the counter himself. "Where is it," he barked.

"Th-there." One finger pointed to a shelf below the counter from its position above the clerk's head.

While the shelf was cluttered with items, one pristine white envelope lay alone amidst it all. Batman swept up the letter without turning his back on the clerk. Letter in hand, he turned to the man cowering beside him.

"The man who gave this to you; did he say anything else?"

The clerk shook his head. "Just said to keep it and give it to you whenever you arrived. He did tell me not to touch it, and I didn't, well, except to put in under the counter. Honest!"

"What did the man look like?"

"Uh, well, kind of normal," the clerk scrunched up his face concentrating. "He was about my height, and had blond hair. He wore a button-up shirt; I don't remember the color, maybe white?"

Batman stared at the man. He couldn't remember the color white? Of course, it could simply be nervousness that was making him idiotic. He obviously didn't think the man was to be taken seriously. Batman supposed he was lucky the clerk hadn't thrown the letter out.

"H-he was dressed for work. You know, with a tie and slacks, oh, and loafers," the clerk added helpfully. "I remember those because they kind of made squeaky noises when he walked."

Squeaky loafers? This didn't sound like a guy who made his living working for men like Crane . . . Unless he was one of the lab assistants. In which case, this was making more sense. Batman turned without another word, left the store and headed back to Harlow; opening the letter as he went. He was careful, hoping to be able to get some fingerprints from it later – hopefully after Robin was safe.

* * *

"No traps after all," Harlow said.

"No, he was on the up-and-up, at least in this," Batman said, pulling out his Bat-light in preparation for reading what was written.

The writing was atrocious; written apparently quickly.

_Batman,_

_I am one of Dr. Crane's lab assistants. In my defense, I didn't know who he was when I took the job. I felt compelled to stay and help in the man's horrid experiments for a couple of reasons; the most important of which was to keep Robin alive._

_It is urgent that you come for the boy tonight, while Crane is gone. The building houses twelve men, but others are always coming and going. Robin is being kept in one of the labs here. He is in bad shape, both from a previous injury and as a result of the tests Crane performed on him. It is imperative that you find me first, BEFORE you rescue Robin. I have information vital to his survival that is too long and complicated to get into here. _

_So, initial instructions are this: _

No_ police. I cannot stress this enough._

_Despite Robin's health; _no_ hospitals or ambulances. You must take him home, and have whoever normally patches you up come there to help him. You will need certain equipment, however. I will tell you what when I speak to you._

_You must speak to me before rushing to Robin's side. This is important! I gave the boy instructions if for some reason speaking to me first isn't possible. I pray he will follow them, and beg you to comply with his wishes. Do not force him to look at you._

_I have important information about Crane's newest toxin. So, you must find me before leaving, if you don't see me first. Try to find me first. I hope to be in the hallway outside of the lab where Robin is being kept._

_This letter is far too long, and I haven't time to be more specific._

_Apologies, Jeremy Cantor_

_The address is Sun Valley Veterinary Hospital,_ _334 West Rochester Drive, Briar Ridge. West of Gotham._

Apparently it is very important to speak to this Jeremy Cantor first. The man mentions this several times; stresses it, in fact. Questions and possible reasons behind this flew through his mind. He would need to find Cantor, however, if for nothing else than to get his information about Crane's toxin.

"So, when are we leaving," Harlow broke through his thoughts.

"_We_ are not. The letter is specific about there being no police involvement," Batman told him, turning in the direction of the Batmobile.

"Yeah, but that could be because this whole thing is a trap. They have the son, and now they want the father," Harlow argued.

Batman jerked to a stop and swung his head to stare at the detective. "Robin isn't my son."

His surprise at Harlow's assumption was the only excuse he could think of that had him blurting out such personal information. It was stupid and dangerous for him to do this, and for the second time in as many days, Harlow learned things from him that he had not intended to share.

The detective tilted his head, and smirked. "You can try to tell people that, but ain't _nobody_ going to believe it. Your concern for him is on par with what I feel for my own boy; a _father's_ concern!"

He had startled the Bat. "Look, I'm not going to run around telling people one way or the other. But I can tell just by watching you that you love Robin, and that's okay. It's how it should be. But others out there, folks like Crane and them; well, if I can see it, it seems likely that some of them will see it, too. Keep him close. If you let him continue this craziness alongside you; just keep him close.

"Anyhow, here's my cell number." Harlow handed him a card. "If you change your mind about having some backup, give me a call. I'll light a fire under them, and we'll be there in no time. Now, go rescue your kid."

Batman nodded, taking the card. "I will call you. Someone will need to come clean up the mess and take out the trash when I'm done."

"Good luck. Hope your kid's okay," Harlow told him. "My boy is really a big fan of his . . . And yours; but when he's pretending to be a hero, it's the _yellow_ blanket he prefers for his cape." With that, the detective walked back to his vehicle.

"Harlow," Batman called out. When the man looked back at him over his shoulder, he said, "Thank you."

"We should be thanking you, Batman," Harlow smiled tiredly. "We should be thanking you."

* * *

**I write often like I read - FAST! If you like the story, check it twice a day. I will often publish 2 chapters a day when I have the time. Unless something is giving me a little trouble, you won't have to wait long before receiving an update. This week is dedicated to Lab Rat, although there is still quite a bit of story left to tell. It won't be finished for a while, despite my prodigious writing habits. I hope it remains interesting and exciting. **


	14. Ousting Lydia

**Warning: Language and some violence**

* * *

Jeremy walked back through the building. He needed to be on hand whenever Batman showed up. It was close to three a.m., and the vigilante would be arriving anytime now. He needed to see what he could do to get Robin ready to leave. Take him out of the cage, remove the catheters and IV, and try to get the boy dressed in something other than a hospital gown that was too large for him.

He worried about the medical equipment he felt was important in case the boy was exposed to one of his triggers by accident. They had the stolen equipment, and if Batman could take everyone down in the building, he would be more than happy to help him take the machines with him. There was no guarantee that he could even get the boy home safely. Perhaps he could supply him with a blindfold and earphones.

He pushed into the room, expecting to find the Boy Wonder sleeping, but instead found Lydia back and taking his vitals. Robin was cowering at the back of the cage as far as his chained arm allowed him to go. His breathing was heavy and labored, indicating he was still in pain. He shouldn't be, however, after the powerful painkiller he had been given only a few hours ago; meaning that Lydia had been exceptionally rough with him.

"What are you doing here," he asked harshly.

She looked over at him with narrowed eyes. "I might ask _you_ the same thing."

"I came to check on the boy," he told her. He was done being cowed by the bitch.

"Don't you mean the subject," Lydia smirked.

"Shut up, Lydia. I am sick of you, of Crane, and of this crazy shit you two seem to think is so fascinating." Jeremy stormed over and grabbed her wrist, twisting it behind her back; forcing her to let go of the boy's arm. He could see, even in the lower lighting, dark marks left by her fingers. His hands tightened in response to her unnecessary cruelty.

"_Ow_! Are you nuts, Jeremy? What the hell do you think you're doing," she snarled at him.

"I'm getting him out of here before you and your boss kill him permanently!"

"_My_ boss? He's _your_ boss, too, Jeremy, and don't think for a second you will get away with this. He will kill you," she warned him in an incredulous voice.

"No, he's not my boss. Crane is a madman and a murderer. He tricked me into working here." Jeremy told her. He shoved her away from Robin's cage. He didn't trust her, and didn't want her anywhere near the boy.

"And yet you stayed," she smiled sweetly. "Don't try to stand on that pedestal; it's nothing but rubble by now anyway."

"I stayed to figure out what Crane was up to, and how to stop him. I stayed for the boy," he snarled.

"And you think that will _save_ you? You are in this as deeply as I am. You didn't stand idly by. You took part in this," she screeched at him now.

"I know what I did. I take responsibility for what I did, and if I go to jail, then at least I will get leniency when I present the court with the antitoxin. It will be worth it knowing you and Crane will crash and burn before this is over." It was Jeremy's turn to smirk.

"What?" Lydia gasped. "You traitorous motherf . . ."

"Ah, ah, ah," Jeremy waggled a finger in her direction, smiling. "There is a child present."

Lydia screamed as she leaped at him; nails curved into claws. Jeremy caught her hands, and spun her around; holding her arms pinned across her body. She slammed her heel down into his instep. Jeremy yelped, and Lydia pulled free of his weakened grip. She turned around, and slapped him across the face; two of her nails leaving bloody scratches across his left cheek.

Jeremy slapped her back, hard. Lydia spun with the blow, landing across the chair from the force of it. It seemed to stun her, and for a moment she stopped; gasping for breath. There was a loud crash in the distance that caused both of them to turn their heads in the direction of the door.

"I think that is your cue to leave, Lydia," Jeremy smiled. His ace had arrived.

The noise of automatic weapons fire was punctuated by individual pops of handguns and the louder bangs from the occasional shotgun blasts. It sounded like World War III out there. Jeremy prayed the Batman was everything he had ever heard him to be.

"What did you _do_?"

"You better hurry, Lydia. I have it on very good authority that the Batman isn't exactly the forgiving sort." Jeremy calmly tore open a piece of gauze, and held it to his cheek.

She glared hatred at him for a brief moment before darting out into the hall, and running in the opposite direction of the gunfire. The noise increased and decreased with the opening and closing of the lab door. Jeremy slumped a little as he leaned against the counter, and then he turned toward the boy.

Squatting down beside the cage, he touched the darkening bruises on the boy's arm. He noticed a trickle of blood, and wondered why she had drawn blood. It didn't look like she used any finesse while taking it either. Poor kid. He took the blood pressure cuff off and put it away; stopping to pull out a band-aid from the cabinet. He grimaced at the pink color and the black paw prints that decorated it, remnants of the building's original, intended use.

"Sorry for the girly color, buddy," Jeremy crooned to the frightened child. "Did she hurt you very much?"

"Kind of," he mumbled softly. "My chest still hurts more."

Jeremy winced in sympathy. "How's your head? Still have that headache?"

"Yeah, but it got better after you gave me that medicine earlier," Robin told him.

"Still have ringing in the ears, or trouble remembering things?" Jeremy needed a quick run-down before Batman showed up, so he could let him know what things he needed to have the doctor look out for.

"The ringing only comes back when I move around a lot, or I get too scared, or from loud noises," he said. "I remember a lot more now. It isn't as hard to think. I don't know if I'm still forgetting anything or not, though."

"Do you remember who Batman is now," he asked the boy. "Cause he's going to be here very soon. Can you hear him out there? He's getting rid of all the bad guys so he can take you home."

"He's a good guy who wears a scary costume," Robin said. "We hang around together, and beat up criminals and bad guys. Right?"

Jeremy smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. Robin just quoted some of the stuff Jeremy had told him earlier about Batman. It didn't sound like the kid really remembered much about him at all. Robin might remember him if he saw him; in fact, seeing him would very likely to shake the rest of those memories loose, but he couldn't actually look at him right now because Batman's cowl was still one of the boy's triggers. Seeing him at this point would only send the child right back into cardiac arrest; something nobody had time to deal with at the moment.

The sounds of fighting were growing dimmer; the gunfire, now sporadic. He wouldn't have time to get Robin out of the cage, or prepare him to be moved. _Damn_ Lydia! Batman was probably already angry, and the sight of his child treated in this inhumane fashion would likely send him into a rage. He needed to talk to him _before_ he could see Robin like this. Otherwise, he might not hear a single word, or worse, he would forget that Jeremy was here to help, and beat the ever-loving crap out of him!

_Damn it_!

Quickly, Jeremy yanked off his tie. He moved to the back of the cage. "Robin, listen," he told him. "I need you to trust me on this. Batman is probably half out of his mind with worry. I know that I would be, too, if you were my kid. I don't know if he'll be inclined to listen to me, and I need to protect you in the meantime. Do you remember me telling you that you can't look at him with his mask on?"

"His cowl, you mean," the boy corrected him.

Jeremy laughed. "You remember that his mask is called a cowl and that he hold grudges, but not much of anything else about him, right?"

Robin made a non-committal noise.

"Okay, well, I need to blindfold you, just to be on the safe side."

The boy turned his head around, trying to look at him. He looked nervous.

"Shh, it's going to be alright," he crooned soothingly. "I'm not going to hurt you. The bad doctor made it so that if you look at Batman's ma . . . ah, cowl, it would make you . . . really sick. Do you remember the tests?"

Robin made a face. He remembered being terrified, of not being able to catch his breath, and then the horrible pain would start in his chest, and his heart would pound like it wanted to burst free. Then he remembered the light and the spirit, and then more pain, and darkness . . . And then waking up either in the chair, or back in his cage; his chest aching and his head throbbing.

Jeremy explained. "He fixed it so that would happen whenever you saw the Batman's cowl. I don't want that to happen while he's trying to rescue you."

Robin knew when he was _beyond_ . . . with the spirit, his thoughts and memories were intact. But whenever he woke back up, those thoughts and memories were still something of a jumble. He was getting better. He hoped when he got home and was surrounded by the familiar, everything would come back.

"You said that Batman is my father," Robin asked in a small, insecure voice.

"Honestly, buddy, I'm not totally sure of that, but I think so. I mean, I can't imagine you not being his son . . . Look, I don't know you guys personally or anything. But everyone thinks that, you know." Jeremy reached through the bars, and gently covered the boy's eyes with the tie.

"That was a really mean trick that Dr. Crane did," Robin said. "To make it so that I can't look at my dad without . . . you know, dying."

Jeremy finished tying a loose knot, and stood up. "Yeah, he is a pretty mean guy."

"I heard what you and that Lydia person said about him."

"Of course you did. How could you not? I'm sorry you had to hear all that." Jeremy made sure his notebook was in his breast pocket of his lab coat.

"He was going to kill me."

"Yeah, he was. That's why I had to leave you for a while."

Robin nodded his head. "To go get my dad."

"Batman, yeah, right." Jeremy cocked his head. He couldn't hear anything. The fighting was over. He needed to get out there and meet the guy, quick!

"Jeremy?" Robin called. "I just wanted to thank you."

Jeremy winced. After all the things he had been forced to do to him, the kid still wanted to thank him? "Nah, you don't have to thank me. After everything that happened to you; after everything I had to do to you . . . No, kid, I owed you this."

"Oh, well . . . Thank you anyway."

Jeremy touched the soft, dark hair. "You are welcome then," he said gently. "I have to go find Batman now."

Jeremy practically ran out the door.


	15. Taking Out The Trash

**Warning: Language and Violence! **

* * *

It _had_ been a veterinary hospital, but one that had went out of business years ago. Sun Valley Veterinary hospital laid on the border of Briar Ridge and Sun Valley, yet another small city that made up the outer edge of Gotham's urban sprawl. Batman's reach seldom extended so far away from Gotham central, its financial district, and its wharfs.

He parked the Batmobile about two hundred yards away, inside a bordering park, and away from the main road. He didn't want to alert the men inside, or any of the men coming and going, Jeremy Cantor had warned him about. He could call the car to him via remote when he was ready to bring Robin out. He had taken time only to pull up the building's lay-out on the computer. He saw two possible hallways that could house the lab that was mentioned in the letter. There were back ways in he could take; one of which was through the kennel, but Cantor had asked that the men be taken out specifically.

Batman's eyes narrowed in thought. Was Cantor on the level or did he want the Scarecrow's men taken out for a different reason; something more self-seeking? It didn't matter anyway. If Robin were here, and since it was likely he was injured, it would be safer to be able to bring him out without worry that they would be discovered and avoid any ensuing fights.

He shot a line to the roof, and used gravity and altitude to give him the momentum to make a stunning surprise entrance. Twelve men wouldn't take long providing they weren't spread throughout the building. There could be others present as well. He didn't know what sort of firepower they carried so it would be best to assume the worst and go in loaded for bear.

He checked for heat signatures to get a general idea of where people were congregated and how many he would be facing. He counted eight in the lobby area and spotted six more in another room just off from the entrance. Fourteen in all; not far off Cantor's estimate. He glanced in other areas and saw a glimmer that represented two more people farther away, and one small, faint glow that Batman guessed might be an animal of some sort; perhaps a large dog. It bothered him that he couldn't locate a signature that represented Robin. He worried that this might be a trap after all, but it would stop him. Even if Robin was being kept elsewhere, he would need information from those inside to locate him.

No more wasting time. Others might be arriving at any moment or Crane could return. Batman couldn't wait to lay hands of Scarecrow, but he would have to. He couldn't risk Robin being exposed to the maniac's fear toxin while he was weak. Batman stepped off the edge of the roof and swung down, crashing through the large window dominating the lobby's front wall.

Batman let go; tossing a couple of smoke grenades as he rolled. He came to his feet and took out the closest shadow with a spinning round kick to the head. A pain-filled grunt told him that the blow was solid. He threw a Batarang into the central light fixture, throwing the room into darkness. Gunfire erupted.

Batman hurdled the desk to avoid the spatter from the automatic weapons, and landed on another man's chest; sending the guy crashing into the concrete wall. _Two down_. Several men joined the fight, entering the room from Batman's right. He tossed a mini-explosive capsule in their direction. Their proximity to one another would ensure that the explosion would take down at least half of them.

Diving to his left, he used the long desk as cover, and slid neatly between the legs of another thug that had come around the counter looking for him. Batman clipped him behind the knees with one sweeping leg, and when the man fell onto his back next to him, the Bat slammed him in the chest with an elbow, followed quickly with a back fist to his nose. Light from the street light outside outlined two men standing near the front door. Two Batarangs knocked both men out. The broken window and the breeze was thinning out the smoke so Batman shielded his eyes and tossed a light grenade into the center of the room, blinding the remaining six men.

Batman threw himself into the midst of the group, knocking the first two men's heads together. A reverse hook kick between the third man's shoulder blades put him out of commission for a few minutes. Batman spun around, and planted a side kick into the fourth man's solar plexus. He finished the fight by hitting the two men in the temple when they attempted to get up.

He straightened and surveyed the damage. Every man was down, and without the gunfire, the building went completely silent. He pulled zip cuffs out of his utility belt, and began the process of handcuffing all fourteen men with their hands behind their backs and their ankles together.

He immediately turned and headed in the direction of the remaining two people. He hoped that this was the hallway he needed. He had no desire to backtrack. The glance he had taken had been confusing, however. Both of the larger figures had been moving around, one more than the other. He was under the impression that Robin had been injured and confined. It didn't seem possible that he was one of the two that were around. The only other figure had been the one he had determined to be an animal curled up on itself . . .

Batman nearly stumbled as the thought suddenly crossed his mind that the animal had been of a size that a boy who was curled up into himself might be! The figure had been in such an odd position for a person and taken up so little space. If it were a person, he would be incredibly uncomfortable. It _couldn't_ have been Robin . . . No, it couldn't have been!

The hallway wasn't straight but curved gently with more hallway and doors appearing with every step. He hadn't went far before noticing a blond man in a white lab coat exiting one of the doors ahead of him.

Batman found the elusive Jeremy Cantor.

Cantor turned toward him; his nervous expression collapsing into a kind of relief as soon as he recognized him. Cantor moved to meet him.

"Batman, thank God," Cantor held out his hand. "Have all the men been neutralized?"

Batman ignored the outstretched hand. "They are subdued. Where is Robin?"

Cantor seemed taken aback by his brusque response. But he didn't cower. He took a deep breath instead.

"I know you are anxious to see him. Believe me, I am anxious to see him out of here and safe, too. But I need to explain something to you first."

"Explain as you take me to him," Batman snarled.

The man had the temerity to step in front of him; placing a hand on the vigilante's chest. "No! You need to listen to me!"

Batman grabbed his wrist; bending it back as he pushed his thumb into a pressure point. Cantor gasped and went down on one knee.

"Robin has been missing for three days, Cantor," he growled. He was _done_ with this! He needed to see his boy _now_!

"Damn it! You can spare another few minutes to ensure the boy's survival, unless you **_want_** to kill him," Cantor ground out through gritted teeth.

Batman's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Is that a threat?"

"No, damn you, it's a warning!" Cantor snarled back.

He released the lab assistant. The man stood up, and stumbled back a couple of steps. Then he straightened, looking the Crusader in the face.

"Dr. Crane exposed Robin to his newest toxin," Cantor told him. "It isn't like his others. He plans to sell this to the highest bidder in order to fund his crazy-ass research; to professional assassins and the like. He ran several tests; exposing the boy several times."

"Dear God," Batman gasped. "Is he still sane?"

"I told you, it doesn't work the same way as the others he has made. This one has a delayed reaction, but deadly results. It doesn't wear off!" Cantor touched his pocket with one hand, causing the vigilante's hand to hover over his utility belt. "I'm fifteen hours away from receiving my degree in bio-chemistry. I've been studying his notes on the sly and keeping track of the tests and their results. I believe I have come up with a possible formula for an antitoxin that, if administered properly, would neutralize the effects of this one."

Batman grabbed the man's lapel, and dragged him back to him. "Does it work?"

"I haven't had time to test it, but it's your best shot right now."

"And what do you want in exchange for it?" The Bat narrowed his eyes and glared at him.

"Nothing! Well, nothing except maybe a good word to the judge. Leniency would be nice, but honestly, I don't care anymore. I just know I want Crane's toxin eliminated from the world." Cantor suddenly looked tired. "Look, you'll need to protect the boy until you can get somebody to test the antitoxin formula. There should be a vial or two of the new toxin in the refrigerator in lab. It can take many forms, but the vials we have left are administered by injection.

"Here," Cantor said, stepping back. "I'll give it to you right now. But I still need to warn you about Robin's condition before . . ."

_**BANG!**_

Batman threw the Batarang instantly as a reflex, even before he had consciously spotted the woman at the opposite end of the hallway. The bat-shaped boomerang hit her hand; likely breaking it as it forced her to drop the weapon. She cried out as she cupped her hand to her chest even as she turned and ran.

Batman cursed as he caught Cantor, and lowered the man to the ground. A hole showed in the front of his lab coat even as the red stain of blood spread out across his chest. The bullet had gone straight through. Had Batman still been holding him close, the bullet would have struck the Dark Crusader in the chest as well. It wouldn't have been a killing blow for him, however, because Cantor's body had slowed it down significantly. Even then, the batsuit's armor was capable of stopping all but armor-piercing rounds.

_Goddamn it_! This was his fault! He had seen there was another body in the building. His only excuse, which was no excuse, was that his mind went straight to his main objective of finding Robin upon recognizing Cantor.

"Cantor, can you hear me?" Batman growled at the man.

The lab assistant blinked rapidly, struggling to catch his breath. Blood bubbled up out of his mouth.

"F-F . . . f-four," he gasped, coughing up more blood.

"Don't try to speak," Batman instructed.

Cantor shook his head. "F-Ffour,"

"Four?"

He nodded; trying desperately to breathe, but he was drowning in his own blood. "T-Tr . . . trig," he panted. "Tr-trig . . . gers."

Batman frowned as he leaned over the man in order to hear him. Whatever Cantor was trying to tell him must be extremely important. "Triggers?"

"Y-yes!" His mouth attempted a small smile.

His shaking hand reached up to touch Batman's cowl. Batman pulled his head away reflexively, but then stopped. A dying man was struggling to tell him something. Batman needed to let him do it in whatever way he could manage.

Cantor's hand touched the edges of the cowl. "C-cowl," he gasped. "Tri-t-trig-ger,"

Batman narrowed his eyes. "Four triggers. My cowl is a trigger?"

Relief flooded the pain-filled face. "R-Rob-insss. . . t-trig-ger."

"What does it trigger, Cantor?" Batman growled. "Tell me."

Cantor blinked again, as if struggling to retain consciousness. He clawed at his chest wound. "N-nn-ote-ss . . . C . . . c-cure!" He clawed more desperately. "H-hh . . . h-here."

At 'here', Batman suddenly realized Cantor wasn't clawing at his painful wound but at the pocket in his bloody lab coat. He gently moved the hand away, and slipped the small notepad out of the damaged pocket.

"Here, Cantor? Is the antitoxin in this?"

For a moment, the man seemed incapable of speaking more. As much blood was pouring from his mouth and nose as from his chest wound. That he still lived was miraculous, but it would not be long. He blinked once at the vigilante; one long, slow, deliberate blink.

Cantor turned his head to the side and spewed blood from his mouth. He turned back to the Bat. "R-Rrrob . . ."

"Robin," Batman supplied. "I need to find him. Is he in the room you came out of?"

"Rrr-rob . . . in." He coughed. "Ff-f-four . . . trig . . ."

Batman leaned in. "Robin has four triggers?" He suddenly realized what he said. "Robin has _**four** triggers_!"

Cantor reached up a shaking hand. He couldn't reach his cowl this time, however. Batman grabbed his hand, and led it to his mask.

"And my cowl is but **_one_** trigger!"

Cantor nodded . . . Coughed. His eyes fluttered as he began to lose focus.

"What does it trigger, Cantor? _Wake up_!" Batman shook the man gently. "What does it trigger?"

Cantor looked back at him. His mouth worked a moment. "D-Dea . . . D-D . . . Dea-th."

Batman's eyes widened behind his lenses. He couldn't have heard that correctly. Scarecrow's toxins didn't kill, except maybe the elderly and those with heart conditions. It could terrorize people into falling off of bridges, or causing car accidents. It could drive some weak-willed individuals mad, but Robin was none of those things! The Scarecrow had always preferred to actual murder his victims the old-fashioned way . . . With a gun!

He looked down at the man; begging him to repeat that, but Cantor's glazed eyes stared up at him lifelessly. There would be no more answers from him.

Batman lowered the man to the floor, and stood up. He flipped open the notepad. Familiar chicken scratch appeared, but the lower third of the pad was destroyed by the bullet. That little which was left was half obscured by blood. The first few pages were the clearest, with every few pages becoming more and more indiscernible as one went.

He found one page that was somewhat legible.

_Robin: Four Triggers. 1. Batman's cowl (pictures, videos, photographs)_

The rest was unreadable. He could just make out a number two and a three, but what was written beside of each was impossible to define. The number four was completely obliterated.

He found the antitoxin formula, but nearly half of it was completely gone. _Damn it_!

"**_Damn it_**!"

He shook himself. He could examine the notebook later. He needed to get to Robin, **_now_**! He rechecked the building's heat signature. The woman was long gone. The men he had captured were still where he left them. No one else was around, except that one unusually-shaped glow in the room that Cantor had exited from. Batman rushed to the door with a determined step. He paused only to pull his cowl off of his head. It was risky, but he couldn't take the chance that the sight of his cowl might affect the boy. He suddenly needed to see him . . . **_right now_**! He couldn't wait another moment!

He shoved the cowl into the back of his belt, beneath his caped and threw the door open; stepping into the low-lit room.

* * *

**My first ever Batman fight scene . . . Is it any good? Were you shocked by Jeremy's death? Sorry, but Jeremy had to go . . . The plot demanded it!**


	16. I've Come To Take You Home

**Warning: Language and disturbing images . . .**

* * *

Bruce scanned the room immediately for cameras. He found two, neither of which were aimed at the door; only one of which was active. The inactive one centered on a small, reclining chair, one reminiscent of a dentist's. But this one would never grace the office of any self-respecting dentist unless he had a penchant for torture. He frowned, that familiar ball of ice forming in his stomach as he considered what exactly the heavy leather cuffs and the small size indicated. And that bastard Crane had filmed it all.

He then considered the second camera, the active one; following its line of sight toward a barred cage along the far wall.

"_Noooo_," he moaned softly. "Oh my God, Dickie . . ."

The image blurred as the tears that had been lodged in the thick lump in his throat finally reached his eyes. One shaking, gloved hand found its way to his mouth. What had that son of a bitch _done_ to his boy? No animal deserved the kind of treatment that Scarecrow had heaped upon this child . . . _His_ child!

He suddenly wanted to howl as an anger he had never experienced before swelled up from some primitive, vital place deep within his soul. He wanted to tear this room apart, raze the building to the ground, and burn it and everyone in it to ash . . . He found a kind a rage inside of him that, if left unbridled, he knew would spur him to lie in wait here until Crane showed up . . . He wanted to rip the man limb from limb, beat him until there was nothing left; not even a heartbeat. Batman . . . _No_! _**Bruce**_ wanted to _kill_ him; he wanted to kill them _all_!

He couldn't move; not without risking freeing the fury that was threatening to consume him. He blinked, his vision clearing as the tears flowed down his face and dripped, unchecked, from his chin; his gaze drinking in the sight of the boy that had so quickly stolen his heart. Despite the condition the boy was in, the sight of his child began to calm him.

Robin . . . _Dick_ had to be terrorized. Bruce suspected he might even be asleep at the moment, although he couldn't see the boy's eyes because of the damned blindfold. Bruce wouldn't terrorize him further still by giving in to his base need for vengeance, and going on a rampage.

Why the _fuck_ would they blindfold him on top of everything else?

The answer presented itself in his next thought. Cantor did this! The man had known that despite his warnings Batman might breeze past him in an effort to find his child without listening, without considering anything beyond his need to sweep the boy up and take him home. The man had taken a considerable risk stepping in his path the way he did. Because, without his bravery and foresight, Batman would have done that very thing and Dick would have died for it. Instead, Cantor had not only saved Dick's life, but also solved Bruce's current problem. He pulled the cowl back over his face and stepped into the room.

He forcibly ignored the urge to run first to Robin. Once he pulled the boy free of that bloody cage, he knew he wouldn't leave him in order to search out the toxin. He went directly to the refrigerator, picked the lock on it in thirty seconds, and pulled out several vials; securing them in his belt. That done, he could now do what he came here to do.

As he approached the cage that held Robin, Batman noted the all of the preparations that had been done to him in order to make him a more convenient lab rat. The animal restraint cage that was barely large enough to fit him, even curled in upon himself as he was; the chains and metal cuffs on his wrists and ankles that seemed redundant considering the child could barely move. His eyes widened as they noted the bags hanging at the foot of the cage. Catheters? They didn't even let him out of the blasted cage to go to the bathroom? Batman took a careful breath in order to cool down the sudden intense flare of anger. He didn't have time to indulge in a fit of temper, and he definitely didn't want to scare Robin.

The cage had small doors at the bottom it. One of these had been opened, and the chain secured in order to hold Robin's arm out and extended; making it convenient for them to check vitals, take blood, or in this case, to set up an IV line.

This close, he could hear the steady, if labored, breathing that indicated the boy was indeed asleep. Batman squat down beside the cage to better assess Robin's health. He was pale and gaunt; his hair lank. He wore a hospital gown that was far too big for him, but as the boy shivered slightly in the too cool room, he supposed that it might be considered a kindness. It was obvious that he was naked beneath it, and Batman wondered where they had stored his uniform. Robin wouldn't have been cold had he been allowed to wear it.

He touched the small pink and black band-aid that couldn't quite cover the bruising beneath of it. Whoever had taken his blood had been ham-handed, and he suspected, taking note of several dark bruises in the shape of fingerprints adorning Robin's wrist, that the roughness had been intentional. The fingerprints were too small to be a man's, so they weren't from Crane, and he didn't really suspect Cantor of the unnecessary cruelty even had the prints been a man's. They must have come from the dark-haired woman that had shot Cantor.

Several wires emerged from the gown and were attached to an EKG machine stored next to the cage. Batman frowned. So, they were monitoring Robin's heart rate. He glanced around the room at some of the other equipment. The ball of ice returned; horror cooling momentarily the fire of anger. An EEG machine sat nearby, currently unused. They had been monitoring his brainwaves, too, at some point. To gauge his level of fear? His eyes stopped, halted at the cart that housed a portable defibrillator.

Dear God! Had they actually _tested_ the _triggers_? Cantor had said that activating the triggers would cause death! Was _that_ the reason they were monitoring Robin's heart? Because it had been stopped before?

He hung his head, closing his eyes. _Ah, God_, he thought. _My poor baby_ . . .

He took off one of his gloves, tucking it into his belt. Sliding his hand between the bars, he touched the boy's head. He felt rather than saw the stitches an inch or two above Robin's right ear. Five stitches! This was where all that blood had come from. The area was still swollen even after three days, and Batman feared the severity of the concussion that must have come with it. Could there have been brain damage? And if they had stopped Robin's heart, how would that have compounded the problems that such an injury would have incurred?

This . . . _This_ wasn't something that could be cured with a couple of days rest and a bowl of Alfred's chicken noodle soup.

Batman watched Robin's heart beating on the machine. The rhythm appeared steady enough; the beats seemed strong. Just by looking at it, one would not have known what tortures the bearer had suffered. Unfortunately . . . Unfortunately, the Batman was becoming all too aware of them. What injuries might that huge gown be hiding from him even yet? What horrors might the cover of sleep veil? Batman took a shaky breath . . . It was time to find out.

"Robin." He called to him softly. He didn't want to startle the boy. "Robin, it's time to wake up."

"Robin," he said a little louder now.

Robin jerked violently as consciousness crashed over him in a rush. His body slammed into the back of the cage as far as his trapped arm would allow. His metal cuff and chains clanked and rattled loudly. The back of his head hit the steel bars hard, but the boy didn't seem to notice in his panic.

"Wh-who's there," he cried out, blind to his surroundings. "J-Jeremy?"

Batman moved quickly to place his hand between Robin's head and the unforgiving metal. He hadn't expected this sort of reaction to his gentle coaxing, but he should have. He quickly tried to calm the child.

"Robin, it's me," he said. "It's Batman. I've come to take you home."

Robin's face turned slowly toward the voice. "Dad?"

* * *

**Reactions? ****Chapter 17 is now posted . . . Warning: Bring Tissues!  
**


	17. Finding Robin

**Warning: Language and disturbing images. Emotional scenes ahead - Bring tissues!  
**

* * *

"You're my dad, right?"

He had apparently just shocked the Batman into speechlessness.

When Robin spoke again, his voice came out sounding younger, uncertain, and frightened. "I, uh . . . Jeremy said that he thought you were my father, b-but . . . I guess you're not after all then, are you?" His lip quivered, and he quickly pulled it between his teeth; biting to still it. "S-sorry."

"You don't remember me," Batman asked, partly to avoid addressing Robin's question.

Robin's head turned to face the wall; his pale face pink from embarrassment. He shouldn't have put so much faith in Jeremy's assumption. The lab assistant had admitted to him that he didn't actually know them. He swallowed the tears that burned his eyes. He didn't want Batman thinking that he was a coward, but he had foolishly gotten his hopes up.

His flashes of memories that he had associated with 'home' hadn't included anyone who had looked like a bat. One of those two men had been his father. The pain and stress of the past few days were beginning to catch up with him. Robin knew he needed to be strong for a little while longer, but this latest disappointment seemed to hit him a lot harder than he expected. The quivering of his lip transferred itself to his chin. In desperation, he tried to turn his body away from the low, gruff voice that had spoken to him so gently.

He wouldn't cry.

Jeremy's tie grew damp despite his determination.

"Robin?"

He sniffled. "S-sorry," he apologized. "I just . . ." he hiccuped. "I just need a m-minute. Please?"

He heard the Batman sigh.

There it was . . . In Robin's mind, he had just disappointed the man who had risk his life to rescue him. He was no longer sure the kind of relationship he had shared with the hero, but he thought that maybe there might be a tiny bit of regret hidden in that breath.

Holding his fear and loneliness in made his bruised chest hurt so badly. And then he just couldn't . . . He couldn't do it anymore. The chains jangled as his body started shaking, and the tears began to flow. It hurt to cry, which only made it worse. Soon, his silent weeping evolved into heartbreaking sobs.

* * *

Robin's question stunned him. Even prepared as he had thought he had been for the boy's mental confusion and the possible physical effects that came with a severe concussion, the idea that he didn't remember who he was hadn't been a part of it. For some reason, amnesia hadn't crossed his mind.

Then Robin had turned away from him. The pain in his chest barely reflected that in his soul. As he watched, Robin; strong, defiant, brave boy that he had always been, seemed to crumple into a small, frightened child as his control over his emotions snapped. His sobs tore at what was left of the broken walls that still surrounded Batman's heart.

"Shh, don't cry," he crooned to him; his voice gravelly with his own suppressed emotions.

Frustrated by his needing to hold the boy, but unable to because of the damned metal bars; Batman cursed under his breath. More than anything, Batman wished he could tell him that he was his father; for the first time, he _wanted_ everyone's assumptions about their relationship to be true. But he _couldn't_ lie to him, not even to make him feel better, because eventually the truth would come out or the boy's memories would return, and then what would happen?

"Robin, please," he begged the boy. "I wish . . ."

Robin hiccuped. He still didn't turn his face back to him, but he began to quiet. "W-what . . . What d-do you wish," he asked.

Batman ran his hand through the dark hair, cupping the child's head in his palm. "I wish you were . . ." he admitted softly. "My son, I mean. I wish you were my son."

At that small admission, Robin turned his head toward him. "Whose son am I?"

"A good man's," Batman told him.

It bothered him more than he could say this blank spot in Robin's memory. What else did the boy forget?

"Robin, do you trust me?"

The boy sniffled. With his arms pinioned, he couldn't wipe it. Batman removed his hand and grabbed a paper towel from the counter. He returned to his previous position and wiped the boy's nose for him.

"Sorry," Robin muttered, blushing. With his pallor, the color stood out starkly on his cheeks.

"Answer my question. Do you trust me?"

The boy nodded hesitantly. "Jeremy said I could. But then again, he was wrong about you being my dad."

Batman was quick to answer, hoping to avoid a return of the child's previous hysteria. "He was right about that, at least. You can trust me to get you out of this. I'll take you home, and keep you safe. We'll fix whatever Scarecrow did to you, chum, I promise."

"Scarecrow? Who's that?"

"I'll explain later," he said. "Right now I need to unhook your IV, and get these cuffs off of you."

"Will it hurt?"

"It shouldn't," Batman told him.

"There are a lot of things I don't think should hurt, but lately it seems like everything does," Robin sighed. "Go ahead. It's not like I could stop you if I wanted to anyway."

What a horrible thing for a child to have to say. Batman tugged carefully at the tape, doing his best to avoid causing Robin any more pain than he absolutely had to face. A tiny hiss, made him pause.

"Sorry. It's okay. It's only a little sting," Robin assured him. "I shouldn't complain. Lydia hurt me a lot worse when she drew blood."

"Lydia? Is she another of Crane's lab assistants?" Batman seethed silently, as he gently pulled the IV from the back of the boy's hand.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "She was the mean one. Everything she did hurt. Sometimes Jeremy hurt me, too, but he didn't want to. He tried not to, but sometimes if Lydia or Dr. Crane was here, he had to a little."

Batman frowned. "What kind of stuff was that?"

The blush was back. "Oh, um, well . . . The catheters," he whispered. "The first time they put them in wasn't great, but my head was hurting more then, so I didn't notice as much. Plus, Jeremy gave me something to make me calm, and I fell asleep right afterwards. The second time was much worse."

"Wait, what second time," Batman asked. Why would they take out the catheters, only to reinsert them again later? He unhooked the chain, and began picking the lock on the cuff.

"I kind of woke up when Jeremy was in the middle of moving me from the cage to the metal gurney. I was confused, and forgot about the catheters. They were attached to his belt for the transfer, so when I rolled out of his arms and tried to run . . ."

Batman grimaced. Robin was slow to pull his arm in as the elbow joint had stiffened from disuse. Batman moved on to the ankle cuffs.

"Yeah, it hurt . . . A lot," Robin admitted. "Dr. Crane was furious, and wouldn't let Jeremy give me any painkiller while they cleaned me up and put the catheters back. Jeremy came back a few hours later though, and gave me something for it. I'm not sure he was supposed to, but he did it anyway. He's the only one who would talk to me."

"What do you mean by that?" Batman pulled the cuffs from the boy's ankles. Like his wrist, they left behind bruising and red, raw skin. Some of the damage looked self-inflicted, as if Robin had struggled against the cuffs at some point.

"They weren't allowed to talk to me," the boy told him. "I was the test subject. Dr. Crane said that you wouldn't talk to a lab rat, after all. But Jeremy did sometimes anyway; you know, like whisper to me so I wouldn't be so afraid. He would come back in between when he could to check on me, and he would talk to me a little then. But he had to pretend to work, so no one would see. Tonight, though, he didn't seem to care who saw him."

Batman had pulled the cage out from the wall and unlocked the last wrist. He started on the door lock next.

"What was different tonight, do you think?" He knew it was because Cantor had already sent word to him through Harlow, but talking distracted the boy, and helped him understand more about what he experienced. Something he said might even tell him more about what Crane had planned with his toxin.

"I think it was because you were coming," Robin said. "But I wish he hadn't done what he did."

Batman removed the lock, frowning. "What did he do?"

"He yelled at Lydia. She was really mad. She told him Crane was going to kill him. She ran when she heard you come in the building."

Crane didn't kill Cantor though. Lydia had done it for him.

"Where is Jeremy?" Robin asked quietly.

"He's . . . gone," Batman said, leaving it at that. He didn't want to upset him with the news of his friend's death; not now, at least. Later, maybe, when he was feeling stronger. "I'm going to open the back of the cage now," he warned the boy.

As the door opened Robin's head slid down. The boy was so weak he couldn't support the weight of his own head without the bars to prop against. Batman glanced at the IV drip he had just disconnected. He reached beneath the gown to peel off the EKG electrodes. The machine's alarm began to shriek when it could no longer read the child's heartbeat. He reached behind him to shut it off.

"Ow," Robin scrunched up his face in obvious pain.

"Robin, what's wrong," he asked, concerned.

When the boy didn't answer immediately, fear shot through him.

"Robin!"

"What?" The boy groaned.

"What's wrong," he repeated, louder.

"It hurts my head," he explained. "The sound; it made the ringing come back."

Batman frowned. "How bad is it?"

When Robin didn't answer, he repeated his question again, louder.

"What?"

Pretty bad, apparently. He needed to get Robin home quickly. The night was flying, and he wasn't certain when someone else might show up.

Remembering the catheters, Batman detached them from the cage so he could pull Robin out. Even though he was trying to be gentle, Robin still cried out in pain as Batman slid him free, and swept the child up into his arms. As he set the boy down on the chair, Robin panicked; screaming.

"No! _No_! _No more_," he screamed, arching his back. He was so weak; however, he wasn't capable of doing much more than that. "Please! It _hurts_ . . . I can't do it again!"

"Robin! _Robin_!" Batman held his shoulders, and yelled in his face. "You're okay. No one's going to hurt you! I won't let anyone hurt you again!"

The tears were back, sliding from under the makeshift blindfold.

"I can't do it again," he repeated, sobbing.

This time there wasn't anything between him and the boy. Batman leaned over him, cradling the child in his arms; weeping with him for the horrors he had been subjected to.

"Shh, it's okay. I've got you. Everything is going to be alright now," he crooned in the child's ear over and over, until Robin finally began to calm. "No one's going to hurt you anymore. I've got you."

"I c-can't do it again," he cried. "I . . . I almost d-didn't make it b-back last time."

Batman pulled back just enough to look down at the boy, confused. "Back from where, Robin? Where did you go?"

Robin just shook his head; rolling it side to side on Batman's arm.

"Robin, did Crane show you a picture of me?" _Please say no_. _Please _. . . _say no_.

"I-I can't remember," he hiccuped, tucking his face into Batman's shoulder. The armor couldn't be that comfortable, but it didn't stop the child from straining to curl into the Bat's embrace. "There was pain, and then a light, and then he told me I had to go back for . . . For . . . For someone."

"Who told you to go back, Robin?"

"Th-the boy," he said.

"Who did you have to come back for?" Talking seemed to be calming him down.

"F-for . . . for . . . I can't remember," he ended on a whine. "He said it was important! Why can't I remember?"

"Easy . . . Shh. It will come back to you. Don't worry," Batman soothed before he could get worked back up.

"I want to go home now," he sniffled. "I don't like this chair. This is a **_bad_** chair!"

It was chilly outside. Batman looked around the room for something to put around him. It sparked his memory. Not that Robin would be able to wear it out, but it might help him just to have it. "Where is your uniform? Do you know where they put it?"

"It's gone," he frowned. "They cut it off of me."

They _cut_ it . . . How traumatic could _that_ have been? Just one more thing he would need to repay Crane for before this was over.

"What about your mask?" Did Crane see his face? That might make Dick a target if Scarecrow recognized him. And if he learned the boy's secret identity, then Batman's wouldn't be far behind.

"I still have it," he said, reaching for the blindfold to show him.

Batman grabbed his hand. "Okay, good. But don't take the blindfold off yet."

"Oh, yeah! Jeremy said I couldn't look at you with the cowl on."

"I need to let you go for a minute, chum. Are you okay with that?" They needed to go soon, but he couldn't take the chance that Robin would have another panic attack.

"You won't go far?"

"I'll be right here, chum," he assured him. "I just need my hands for a moment."

"No one will strap me down again," Robin asked in a child-like voice.

"Not if they want to live," Batman growled, low and threatening.

To his surprise, the boy giggled; reassured in that threat that no one would harm him.

Batman took the time to wipe the boy's nose for him again, and then took off his cape. He gathered the catheters, hooking them on his belt, and prayed he wouldn't need to fight between here and the car. He would need Alfred or Leslie's help to remove them. Then he wrapped Robin up in his cape until only his face could be seen.

The boy struggled a bit, obviously detesting any hint of restraint. He didn't blame him, but the boy was already cold. He was too weak right now to risk hypothermia on top of everything else. He settled a bit when Batman explained that it was only until they got to the car. There he could crank up the heat, and the cape would not be so necessary.

After a moment's pause, Batman smiled. He attached two charges to the chair as a parting gift. One for Robin, and one from him.

It was four-fifteen in the morning when Batman cradled his child in his arms and walked out the front door. He tapped the remote on his belt, and reveled in the sound of one very bad chair being blown to oblivion. He looked down and caught a hint of a smile on the boy's face. The Batmobile was waiting for them. He loosened the cape around Robin even as he buckled the seat belt securely. He decided to leave the blindfold on for the trip back, just to be safe. But it wasn't until he was in the car and they were speeding back toward the Batcave, that most of the tension from the past four days left him.

Not completely, however. Robin was still suffering from a concussion; dehydration, if that saline solution was any clue; all the complications due to the inhumane testing Crane had forced on him; and when was the last time the boy had eaten? Then there was the threat of three unknown triggers still hovering over the boy's head.

Batman looked over at Robin, relief flowing through him, despite those troubles, that Robin was alive, and back where he belonged; with _him_.

* * *

**I was personally very pleased with Batman's parting gift. Reactions? **


	18. Introductions

**I hadn't quite the time I would like to edit this, so hopefully the mistakes are few. **

* * *

Batman radioed ahead, alerting Alfred that he had Robin and was on their way home. He told the elder man to call Leslie to meet them at the cave. He warned him of the boy's head injury, and instructed him to put away any and all cowls that were on display, promising to explain later.

Robin was still asleep when the Batmobile rolled to a stop. Climbing out of the vehicle, Bruce yanked his cowl off and tossed it to Alfred as the man raced to meet him.

"Get rid of that," he barked, rushing to the passenger side. "You hid all of the other cowls, correct?"

"Indeed, sir. Could you explain now why this is necessary?"

"In a moment, Alfred. I'll explain everything once Robin is getting the attention he needs. Is Leslie here yet?"

"Yes, based off of your rather short call, she is busy making preparations that she thought Master Richard might need. Might I ask where your cape is, sir?"

Bruce opened the door and paused. "Robin's wearing it. Now, would you please hide that thing?"

Confused, but obedient, Alfred rushes back to hide the master's cowl despite his own anxiousness to see the young sir. There had to be an important reason behind the odd order. He could be patient a minute longer if it meant he could finally see their boy.

He was just turning around when Bruce stood up with a black wrapped bundle in his arms.

"My word . . ."

* * *

Bruce leaned in over Robin, unhooking the seat belt. The boy was so exhausted from his ordeal that his sleep resembled unconsciousness more than a normal nap. It had taken all his willpower to not pull over to check on him; in the end he had settled on removing his gloves so he could reach over regularly to check his pulse and run his hand over his hair. The lad stirred, moaning in discomfort, as Bruce lifted him from the vehicle. He noted the way Robin had kept his legs tucked close the entire trip, and wondered if it were due to long, extended hours confined in that tiny cage.

He suddenly wished he had blown the cage up as well before leaving the building. Its proximity to the chair, however, had guaranteed at least some serious damage. He would have to be okay with that for now. He would give Harlow a call later in the day to get the particulars on the arrests. If they were lucky, Crane might have walked in just in time for the round-up. Unfortunately, he didn't believe that was the case. It was more likely that Crane would have arrived in time to see the swarm of flashing lights, and turn around before anyone was the wiser.

Alfred and Leslie met him in the medical bay. Robin woke up in a panic just as Bruce lowered him to the padded gurney, shocking everyone, but Bruce. Sadly, he had been expecting that.

"Shh," he cooed, picking the boy back up and cradling him in his arms. His own distraught eyes met those of the doctor and Alfred. "You're safe now, Robin. You're among friends. No one is going to hurt you here." When Robin continued to fight, Bruce repeated the words louder and directly into his ear. Slowly, the child relaxed.

"Is he wearing a blindfold," Leslie asked, horrified.

"It was a necessary evil, doctor, I assure you," Bruce murmured as he rocked the boy

Is there something wrong with his hearing," she asked.

"Tinnitus," Bruce told her. "Harsh movements, loud noises, emotional upheavals can apparently make it worse. Alfred told you about the head injury?"

"Well, yes, but for him to still be suffering from tinnitus nearly four days later indicates it was far more serious that I realized. Are there any more symptoms relating to the injury that you know about?"

"Ah, yes," Bruce looked up, worried. "Amnesia."

"How bad?" Leslie moved to look at the boy's head while Bruce held him.

"The lab assistant that alerted me had to explain to him who Batman is. He also made the usual faulty assumptions about our relationship to one another that have confused him further," Bruce explained softly, hoping that the boy couldn't hear him talking over him like this. He didn't want to embarrass him or hurt his feelings. "I'm not certain how far it extends beyond that."

Speaking into Robin's ear, he told him, "Robin. If you let me set you down, we can remove the blindfold now."

"I want to go _home_," Robin whined.

Alfred and Leslie both exchanged a startled glance. Dick almost never whined unless suffering from a high fever, and Robin never did. He sounded more like a miserable six-year old than the brave, cheerful ten-year old they were used to.

"You are home, chum. We're in the medical bay in the Batcave. Leslie's here and she's going to check you over to see if you're okay physically."

"_Noooo_," Robin curled into Bruce's chest.

"Please, Robin. It needs to be done. Afterwards, we will take you upstairs to your room and tuck you into your own bed. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Am I home?" The fragile hope in those words, in his voice, broke everyone's heart.

"You are," Bruce assured him.

"Do I have to get a shot," he asked worriedly.

"Not unless you need it," Bruce told him. "But I promise it won't hurt like before." Despite assurances, Robin was stiff with tension as Bruce lowered him once more onto the gurney.

* * *

Robin allowed himself to be unwrapped from Batman's cape, but he was scared. He could sense he was in a large place, although he couldn't see it and hearing was iffy at the moment. His ears were ringing again because of his upset. It wasn't as terrible as before. He could still hear voices that spoke in his ear.

But he was worried. The voice that spoke with him now was different than Batman's; it wasn't as low or growly like Batman's. It was similar in tone and cadence, though, but it confused him. He couldn't tell over the ringing if it sounded familiar or not. He hoped it didn't mean that Batman had left him already. He didn't get a chance to thank him or say goodbye.

"Where's Batman," he asked. If Batman said he was home and safe, he could trust these people.

The activity around him halted. Although he couldn't tell for sure, he thought everyone was silent.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't hear him. Did he go home?"

Silence, again. That scared him.

"I'm here, Robin,"

There it was! But it was coming from the same place that the other voice had been coming from. Maybe he pushed the other man away?

He turned his head toward the voice. "I was afraid you left me. I didn't get to thank you for rescuing me."

"You don't have to thank me. I'll always come for you, Robin; always."

"Yes, I do," the boy insisted. "You don't understand how terrible it was there. If you hadn't come when you did, Crane would have killed me," he told him. "And this time left me that way!"

"What? What did he just say," came a woman's voice on the other side of him.

"Who's that?" Robin reached his hand over toward Batman. A large, warm hand encompassed his small, cold one immediately. He couldn't help wondering if she was anything like Lydia was.

"That's Leslie," Batman reassured him. "She's your doctor. She's nice. She won't hurt you . . . Are you ready to take your blindfold off?"

Robin's hands flew to his face. "I can't look at you! Jeremy said your cowl will hurt me."

"Not anymore, chum. I took it off. You're safe."

"Oh, okay . . ." His hands lowered slowly, and he felt hands tugging the tie from his head. He couldn't help it. He closed his eyes.

"You can open your eyes now," Batman told him.

Slowly he opened his eyes; squinting and blinking against the bright light after a couple of hours of darkness. That's why the place felt so huge! He was really in a cave! How cool was that?

He could see the doctor off to his left, but he was more curious about Batman. He turned to look at his rescuer and partner, and gasped. It was the man from his visions; the one from behind the desk, the one who read to him! And he was Batman?

"It's _you_" he exclaimed. Did this mean that this man wasn't his father, then?

Gasps sounded, but he ignored them in favor of staring at the man with the bat on his chest.

"Do you recognize me," Batman asked him in that other voice.

The boy nodded. "I-I can't remember your name. I thought you said you weren't my father."

The man sighed, looking sad. "I'm not . . ."

"But . . . I remember you smiling at me over breakfast, and reading to me at night! Those are things a _father_ does," he accused him. "You're telling me that it was the other man under the big tent with sawdust that is my father?"

"His name was John Grayson. He and your mother, Mary, were trapeze artists with Haley's Circus. Does that ring any bells for you?" Bruce told him.

Robin frowned as he attempted putting names on the faces in the visions he had been having. Nothing actually clicked for him, but the names felt right. The place he had seen of exotic animals and costumed people was called a circus. That name did fit. Okay, so he grew up in a circus.

"So, where are they now? Why am I living here with you," Robin asked.

The man looked at the woman beside him; his expression distraught. He looked back at Robin. "Let's let Leslie look you over first. Later on, if you are feeling up to it, I'll try explaining things to you."

"Will you tell me your name, at least?"

"My name is Bruce," the man with the bat told him. "Bruce Wayne. This man is Alfred."

"Bruce," he repeated. Robin then rolled his head see the tall, elegant-looking gentleman hovering just over Bruce's shoulder. His eyes widened. "_The man with the cookies_!"

Alfred smiled at him, misty-eyed. "That's right, young sir. I am the man with the cookies. Are you hungry? I might be able to find a cookie or two and a glass of milk for you?"

Robin shook his head. "No, that's okay. I haven't been hungry for a while."

"Did they not feed him," Leslie asked Bruce.

Bruce looked down at him.

Again, he shook his head. "No." At their horrified expressions, he justified it, not wanting them to think badly of Jeremy. "Although that might have been because I kept throwing up a lot the first couple of days. I suppose they wouldn't have bothered after that since I was supposed to die anyway sometime this morning."

Stricken faces glanced at one another. They _had_ been cutting it a little close, he thought.

"If he hasn't eaten for that long, we will need to start him off slow," Leslie told Bruce and Alfred. Robin's lips turned down. She kept talking over him just like Dr. Crane and Lydia did.

"Warm broth and tea, perhaps," Alfred suggested.

"That will do for now," she agreed.

Alfred smiled at him, then. "I'll bring you a bit of broth, then, eh, Master Richard?

Robin blinked at the name. "What did you call me?"

Alfred glanced up at the other adults.

"Hey," he said, getting a bit angry. "I'm right here! Look at me!"

Alfred looked back at him. "I'm very sorry, sir. I didn't mean to ignore you. It's just that . . . It's simply that . . . Well, what would you like me to call you?"

"My name is Robin," he told him. "How could you forget that?"

Bruce squeezed his hand, drawing his attention. "It isn't that he forgot, Robin. It is just that like me, you have two names. One for when you wear the mask, which is Robin. The other one is when you take the mask off."

"My name is Richard?" He pursed his lips, thoughtfully. "It doesn't seem right."

"What name seems right to you, then," Leslie asked.

His eyes flitted to the woman's, and then away. So, now she deigned to talk to him?

"I don't know," he complained. "I hadn't thought about it. Why should I when I had a perfectly good name already?"

* * *

Bruce frowned at the unusual rudeness the boy displayed toward the doctor. Dick had always liked and trusted Leslie before this. He worried that with the memory loss, the boy might have also undergone a personality change . . . Or could it simply be his reaction to strange people and places after a particularly traumatic and grueling experience?

The boy was getting agitated again with all the questions. True, they needed to ask them to ascertain his condition, but perhaps they could put them off after he had rested. If tonight was anything to go by, he hadn't had a truly restful sleep in days.

"Why don't we work on checking you out, to make certain you aren't in need of medical treatment right away, and taking your mask off? Then you can have something to eat and we'll tuck you into bed," he offered instead. "We'll try to save the questions for later, after you've slept."

"You won't leave me?" The little boy voice was back. Robin's grip tightened over his.

"I'll be right here, chum," he promised. I'll want to change clothes in a little while, but I'll wait until you are eating for that."

"I'm not really hungry," he told him.

"But you'll try to eat something anyway, won't you? Because," he said. "You are very weak right now. You won't heal properly without getting a few calories inside of you."

"Can I come with you, please," he asked hopefully. "When you change? If I promise to eat, can I come with you?"

Ah, so _that_ was the matter. The problem was he was afraid that there were possible triggers in the changing room. He had told Alfred to hide the cowls, but until he knew for sure where they all were, he didn't want to risk exposing the boy to one.

"Let's wait until Alfred comes back to decide," he said. "I want to take the mask off of you now."

Beautiful, cerulean blue eyes stared up at him, fear evident in them.

"Do I have to?"

The mask must have helped him to feel safe, Bruce concluded. Even with the lenses removed, it was a barrier between Dick and all the scary things that had been happening to him.

"It wasn't meant to be worn all the time, Robin. You're safe here. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Robin slid his hand onto Bruce's wrist, unwilling to let go even for this. "Okay," he agreed in a small voice.

The skin beneath the mask was irritated, and the dark circles that had been hidden were now prominent; making the gauntness appear that much greater. Bruce realized that even had Crane not planned to kill him, the boy wouldn't have lasted much longer in his condition.

His heart clenched painfully in his chest as he looked down at his ward. The mask had been a sort of barrier for him as well apparently. If Robin had appeared so small and fragile after his ordeal, Dick Grayson's appearance broke his heart. He blinked back the tears that were stinging his eyes. The boy needed him to be strong.

Leaning down, he pressed his forehead to the boy's. They gazed back at one another in silence for a moment.

"Hey there, Dick," Bruce said. "There you are."

Dick smiled hesitantly. "Hey, Bruce. _That_ one sounded right."

* * *

**Reactions? What do you think? Dick's memories will begin returning now that he's home. I just couldn't pass up the angst that having Dick not remember Batman, Bruce's name, or understanding their relationship would bring. Troubles ahead, but now will be punctuated with occasional bouts of fluffiness.**


	19. Home Where He Belonged

**Warning: Some Language**

* * *

Alfred returned to the cave bearing several necessary items. The change of clothing was appreciated. Dick had hated the gown with its open back. He had always felt cold and exposed. He couldn't wait to put on the warm-looking, blue flannel pajamas and socks, but he was especially happy about the underwear.

Once the catheters were removed, the doctor lady laid a blanket over him, and removed his gown. Her mouth opened on a gasp, and she dropped the gown. Bruce and Alfred stared in horror at him. Curious, Dick attempted to see whatever had upset them, but he couldn't raise his head up high enough, nor hold it up long enough.

"Oh, my God . . ." Leslie moaned. "I . . . I think we've discovered the reason behind Dick's labored breathing," she said at last. "We should probably make arrangements to x-ray his chest for probable fractures at the same time as we do the CAT scan. I am surprised he didn't wind up with a punctured lung from the looks of this bruising."

Alfred stepped up, and with one shaking hand, traced an area above his sternum. "D-do you see what I see?"

Bruce snarled through gritted teeth. "I see a goddamned hand print; that's what I see. Crane will wish he'd never been born when I get my hands on that bastard!"

Frightened by the reactions around him, Dick squeezed Bruce's hand. The man's attention immediately shifted to the boy's face. "What's wrong . . . Oh no, I'm sorry, chum. We didn't mean to scare you. You're going to be fine."

Leslie made quick work to finish her examination. Dick was growing more restless and agitated by the moment. "I'll make the appointments for his x-rays and scan. Be available later today. I'll call you and let you know when and where.

"In the meantime, he needs clear liquids, as much as he can hold. I'd suggest another IV, but I think he's had enough of needles for a while. He's not terribly dehydrated; probably because of that saline drip you mentioned earlier. The liquids should be enough to do the job. Alfred's salve for bruising should help the abrasions on his wrists and ankles. Apply liberally. He needs plenty of rest. I can prescribe a sedative if he needs one. Trauma like this is bound to cause a plethora of nightmares.

"Keep him quiet and still, so as not to compound any injuries. Prop him up with pillows to assist his breathing, and keep him warm. A cold right now would be devastating if he were already suffering from broken ribs. He may also experience a day or so of incontinence due to the removal of the catheters"

Dick watched the adults talking over him again. The doctor had spoken to him only briefly, asking the occasional question. But Alfred, at least, would look at him occasionally, and smile encouragingly. Bruce would squeeze his hand every now and then, and kept running his hand through his hair. That last part was really soothing, and Dick found his eyes drooping after a little while.

He awoke a little while later in Bruce's arms, being carried up some stairs. A door slid open at the top, and Bruce stepped out into a fancy room with a coffered ceiling, a giant desk, and a sofa in front of a fireplace with a carved mantelpiece . . . Instantly, Dick was awake and aware, and trying to sit up in his arms.

"Whoa, partner," Bruce said to the suddenly squirming child. "What's the matter?"

"It's the _room_," he yelled, excitedly. He grinned up at a startled Bruce. "It's the _ROOM_," he clarified.

Bruce glanced at an equally confused Alfred. "I don't understand," he said. "Do you remember this room?"

"Yes! I remember you working at that desk," he said, pointing. "And that fireplace! And the ceiling! I remember the ceiling!"

He remembered sitting on the sofa reading, and laying on the thick rug in front of the fire. He remembered seeing the man, Bruce, stop working to look up at him. He remembered the look in his eyes, and how he had felt at that moment; wanted . . . And safe. When he had seen flashes of Bruce in this room; when he had thought that Bruce had been his father.

"Would you like to stay in here for a little while," Bruce asked, interrupting his thoughts. "I can have Alfred bring you a blanket and pillow while I make a fire."

"Are you going to work at the desk?" As much as he might like to see his vision made a reality, Dick thought he preferred to be right where he was at now; in Bruce's arms.

* * *

Bruce looked down at the boy snuggled in his arms. For a brief moment, the child he remembered had been back; excited and full of energy over a memory he had had of Bruce's study.

Although Dick needed to rest, he thought that doing so in a room that was familiar and comfortable would make it easier. He looked over at the desk. He had plenty of work to do, having ignored everything in favor of his frantic search during the past week. Dick could lie curled up on the sofa; close, where he could look up at any given moment and see him safe.

As much as Bruce liked the idea of making Dick's memory a reality, he found that he preferred the boy where he was right now; in his arms.

"No, chum," he said. "No work today. If you would like, we could both settle in on the sofa together. Or if you want, I could take you up to your room; seeing it might spark more of your memories."

The boy leaned his head on Bruce's chest as he thought it over. "Where would you be?"

He tried not to smile at the hint. "You don't have to worry about that," he told him. "I think I'd like to keep you close for a while . . . Unless you _prefer_ some alone time? You've had a lot of revelations today."

Wide eyes looked up at him; a plea within them. "No," the little boy voice returned. "I don't want to be alone."

"Good," Bruce was quick to reassure him, hating the fear that was so quick to return to those troubled blue eyes. "I don't think I want to be alone either." The tension that had crept into the child's body since he woke now seeped out.

The sun was creeping over the horizon; its rays brightening the room with a warm glow. Alfred came to the door with a tray in his hands.

"Are you taking Master Dick to his room, sir?"

"I think we're going to stay here for a little while, Alfred." Bruce said as he settled Dick into a corner of the sofa; propping an overstuffed cushion behind his back. "You can bring the tray in here. I'll help him with it."

"Very good, sir." Alfred set the tray on the low table beside the couch. "Will either of you be needing anything else?"

"I'm going to lay a fire, but we might like a blanket or two, and maybe a pillow to ward off the early morning chill until it gets going."

Alfred smiled at the boy they had both grown to care so much for in the past year. Dick's lips quirked up into a sleepy smile in return. "Ah, a most excellent idea, if I do say so."

The boy's eyes followed Bruce's movements greedily. When the fire was crackling happily, Bruce sat beside him. After a moment, however, Dick sat up gingerly and situated himself against the man's side. Bruce propped a pillow against the sofa's arm, and drew the boy into his lap. Dick sighed as Bruce tucked a blanket around them both.

He picked up the broth, and held it to the boy's lips. He sipped carefully in the beginning, but after the first wash of delicious warmth down his parched throat, Dick clasped the mug in both hands. Bruce eased it away as he began to gulp the broth.

"Slowly, Dick," he warned. "Or you'll wind up throwing it back up in a few minutes."

The boy grimaced, and rubbed his chest. "I don't think I want to do that," he agreed.

Bruce helped him sip slowly, but was surprised when he turned his head away a short time later. There was still half a mug left, and the boy had yet to touch his tea. "You don't want more?"

"Full," came the sleepy reply.

* * *

Alfred peeked in to check on his charges a short time later, only to find both snuggled under the blanket and sleeping heavily. While he had only the vaguest ideas of the sort of hell the lad had been forced to endure that last few days, he doubted Master Bruce had gotten any more sleep than the boy had.

He released the draperies so that the burgeoning sun wouldn't wake the sleeping duo, and then quietly gathered the boy's mug and his elder charge's coffee cup onto the tray, and took them back to the kitchen. He was in the middle of gathering supplies for a double batch of chocolate chip cookies in celebration of Dick's return.

It was good to have the boy back home where he belonged.

* * *

**Rest up boys . . . You're going to need it.**


	20. Miracle - Straight From God

**I got this out a few hours later than I expected. Sorry about that . . .**

**No Warnings. Enjoy! It might not happen again.**

* * *

Worried about possible triggers, Bruce decided that a blindfold would again be necessary while taking Dick to the hospital for his X-rays and CAT scan that Leslie had ordered for him. After explaining it to Dick, Alfred placed gauze over his eyes, and carefully wrapped his head with more gauze; long strips of it. No one would think to question it.

He had Alfred drive them in the Bentley so that he could sit with Dick, and use the time to go through Jeremy's little notebook. The boy was nervous and hated wearing another blindfold, so he chose to sit in the middle of the back seat so that he could lean against Bruce. The three hour nap had helped Bruce, but Dick was still exhausted and fell asleep not more than five minutes into the drive. So, Bruce began flipping through the book trying to make sense of it.

There was no true chronological order to it. Cantor added things as he discovered them, interspersed with clues to some of Dick's experiences while Crane tested this new toxin on him. Bruce determined to go at his earliest opportunity to search Cantor's apartment for other notes.

He could tell from the notes that there had been a two-step process in which Dick had been given the toxin and a trigger was subliminally implanted in his subconscious. Unfortunately, the blood splatter covered nearly all of the details, and what happens once the triggers were activated was completely obliterated by the bullet. The one glaring piece of information that taunted Bruce was that this toxin didn't wear off; _NEVER_ wore off! Once a trigger is set, it will never go away on its own, even after the victim survives the first activation. Another exposure would get the exact same deadly results. The only hope one had without a '_cure_', was that he or she could be revived if medical treatment was given quickly enough; in other words, immediate medical attention was paramount!

So, if one was aware of the trigger, one might conceivably live out his life reasonably safe. One problem, however, is that the victim isn't aware of the trigger, at least not until he experiences it. Actually, _no_! Even that wasn't true, he realized. Dick apparently was exposed to _all_ his triggers, and revived each time, but he still wasn't aware of what they were . . . Except for the Batman's cowl, and that was only because Jeremy Cantor had been present during the testing of the triggers, and because he decided to share. Dick still had three triggers they didn't have a clue about. Everything was a potential threat to him!

If Bruce couldn't solve this, Dick's life would be, in effect, over. The boy would be afraid to step foot out of his bedroom door. He wouldn't even be able to read a newspaper or watch television without risking his life. All it would take was a glimpse of whatever the trigger happened to be; and even a prior knowledge of the cowl trigger couldn't save him if the news suddenly flashed a picture of Batman.

Bruce looked down at the boy he now wished belonged to him in more ways that the courts had granted him. He had never wanted children; had made the decision years before that he would never have them. The lifestyle he had chosen for himself, his mission, forbade his having a family. In the meantime, he had never regretted making the choice to forgo creating another generation of Waynes . . . Until now.

What he was craving now was not biological progeny . . . It was simply family. He had Alfred. The man had been his surrogate father every since his parents' death. Bruce knew that the man meant the world to him. He recognized his feeling for the older man as love similar, very similar in fact, to what he felt for his own father. But the boy curled up so trustingly next to him surpassed even that, and _that_, he admitted to himself, was shocking!

Bruce suddenly wanted a son . . . But not just any son; not just any child. Bruce wanted _this_ child. He wanted _Dick_ to be his son. 'Ward' just didn't cut it, anymore. He didn't want to be this child's guardian, he discovered.

His hand shook as he stroked the silky, ebony strands at the realization that he wanted to be the boy's father in every way that mattered. Blood didn't, but Alfred had already proven that blood wasn't necessary for a familial bond to be created. He and Dick had already discovered a bond from the very beginning from the tragedy that they both had experienced with the murder of their parents. Other similarities appeared the more they got to know one another.

While Bruce's personality was one of an introvert, despite his playboy reputation; Dick was a social creature who reveled in his relationships. Bruce was obsessive and brooding, while Dick, on the other hand, was an eternal optimist. The boy also had obsessive and brooding tendencies, but it was that shining optimism that kept those tendencies from overtaking his life as they had done to his guardian.

These thoughts and the occasional brushing of his fingers over the stitches that mingled with Dick's hair had Bruce wondering again about the extent of the boy's head injury. Other than the amnesia and ringing ears, had the child's personality been affected? It was impossible to tell at this point. He was anxious to learn the results of the CAT scan. How much of the little changes he had noticed were from the injury, and how much of those changes were a direct result of Crane's research methods?

He was saved from his brooding when Alfred turned into the hospital parking lot. Bruce got out, and managed to lift the child up without waking him. He carried him with one arm; Dick's head lying on his shoulder, his nose tucked against Bruce's neck. The warm breaths against his skin were reassuring, but as he entered the elevator that would take him to the floor he needed, that nervous fear that had been plaguing him returned.

Bruce wasn't a religious man. He and God had an odd relationship. For most of his life Bruce had remained angry at the Deity that had denied him his parents at such a young age. God expected him to forgive the criminal who had killed his parents in front of him in cold blood; to forgive the others that he had tracked, fought, and sent to prison. Bruce didn't have it in him to do that . . . At least, not at this point in his life. Likely never.

But then HE did something like this . . .

Bruce rubbed circles on Dick's back as he watched the lighted numbers announcing his ascent. Where would he be today had Dick not been thrust into his life more than a year ago? People had told him how much he had changed since the boy had walked through the front door that first time. Alfred, Leslie, Clark . . . Hell, the entire Justice League seemed to think he had become some kind of cuddly teddy bear since Robin had entered his life. It was humiliating!

. . . It was also the greatest gift he had ever received. It gave him hope that maybe the Big Guy wasn't so bad after all. Bruce's net worth was upward of seventy billion dollars right now. He owned priceless treasures, premium real estate, a plethora of expensive cars, a company that was in the top five of Forbes' "Best 100 Companies To Invest In", and a mission that had given his life meaning after it had lost all meaning the day his parents had died. And none of it . . . Not any of it was worth more to him than the child he held in his arms.

The elevator doors opened onto the seventh floor as the question entered his mind . . .

_How the __hell__ had this happened_?

* * *

A hour and a half later, Bruce sat in the waiting room as exhausted as the boy in his arms. Dick hadn't handled the X-rays very well. He had handled the CAT scan even worse. For the last ninety minutes, the word cooperation didn't exist in the child's vocabulary.

Because Bruce couldn't remain in the room with Dick during the CAT scan, he had been forced to talk to the boy constantly throughout the procedure through the speaker system. The technician had muttered about how his constant 'chatter' would create activity in the brain that might obscure the results, but there had been no choice. Dick panicked every time Bruce stopped talking.

Leslie had spoken to him briefly on the phone after his and Dick's nap about the differences between a CT (CAT) scan and an MRI. Despite the need for a needle and the risks involved due to radiation exposure, they had decided that the CAT scan would be better for Dick due to the difference in noise and times needed to perform the test. CT scans were quieter, much quicker, and were less sensitive to the movements of a frightened, restless child than MRIs.

The gauze bandage blindfold had proven to be inspirational, however, in helping Dick overcome a possible claustrophobia scare. If he couldn't see that he was in a confined space, he wouldn't be so worried about it.

He looked up as Leslie crossed the room and sat in the seat next to him. She had spent the last twenty minutes in conference with the radiologist and a neurosurgeon. She smiled at him, but he could see signs of stress that the smile couldn't quite hide.

"Don't leave me hanging, Leslie," he begged quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping boy. "What are we looking at here?"

"Some good news and some not so good news," she began.

"Start with the bad news," Bruce groaned.

Leslie raised an eyebrow. "We'll start wherever I say we'll start," she told him.

"First, there were signs of intracranial bleeding, but the damage appears to be minimal and whatever swelling there was, very little remains. There was a slight hairline fracture of the right temporal bone, but no bone shards were found. Dick was incredibly lucky. This sort of injury could have caused serious, permanent brain damage. We won't truly know for a while what areas were affected or if it is a permanent condition.

"We should consider a hearing test in a few weeks, after he heals a bit more, to determine if there was any permanent hearing loss. The tinnitus might be a continuing problem for a while, although Dick said it is improving. I'm not certain if it will completely go away on its own."

Bruce frowned. Ringing ears might be a problem if Dick continued to be Robin. Personally, he was all for hanging up Robin's cape forever after this scare, but Dick had needed Robin to cope with his grief. If no condition remained to prohibit him, Bruce wasn't certain that he would be able to keep the boy home. Then again, the experience might have easily turned him off of crime fighting for a while.

"He hasn't walked or stood on his own since you rescued him, has he?"

Bruce shook his head. "He's so weak, Leslie. I don't think he _could_ support his own weight at the moment, even if he wanted to. So far, he's been content to live in my lap."

"After what he went through, I can't say I blame him," she said. "Anyway, I would be interested to know if his balance has been affected. You will get back to me on that, won't you?"

"Of course! But I hope that isn't something that you fear might become permanent. I can't imagine what it would do to him to not be able to do his acrobatics again." He didn't have to mention Robin here. Leslie was already aware of what some of these problems would mean to the future of the Dynamic Duo.

She made a noncommittal noise, her gaze dropping away from his. "I know that I, for one, wouldn't be disappointed if the boy were required to hang up his cape, but the two of you have shown me over the last several months how much it means to him. I would hate to be the one to have to explain that to him. But _physically_, I can't say that anything that has happened to him would prevent him from going out into the field again."

"What else is there, Leslie? What aren't you telling me? Is it the amnesia? Is it permanent?"

Leslie uncrossed her legs and leaned forward; resting her elbows on her knees. She turned her head in his direction, but didn't actually look at him.

She sighed. "The amnesia is troubling, Bruce. If it came from shock, it might resolve itself on its own. Usually, the person doesn't remember several hours before the injury and the time immediately after it is often a jumble. This is usually permanent. The problem is that Dick's amnesia goes all the way back, but is selective. This might be the result of his injury, but I suspect that a good part of it directly relates to the emotional trauma on top of his physical injuries. He remembers how to do most things as far as I can tell at this point. Later, we might need to schedule him with different therapists as the situation warrants."

"Different therapists? Such as . . ." Bruce asked.

"Speech; occupational; physical . . . Whatever he needs to return to the level of function that he enjoyed before."

"His speech is fine . . ." he began.

"From the bits of conversation I've had with him, and what I've overheard between the two of you during the scan," Leslie explained. "I suspect he is suffering from a condition called 'Anomia'."

"I've never heard of that; Anomia. How serious is it?" Bruce tightened his grip on the child. Dick mumbled a protest in his sleep. It took a fair bit of concentration for Bruce to relax his hold.

"Anomia is a condition where the patient has trouble naming objects," she told him.

Bruce nodded, his eyebrows raising as he remembered Dick forgetting what the name for circus was, or the word for concussion.

"In Dick's case," she sighed. "It's difficult to say this early if it is serious or permanent."

"Leslie, please tell me that Dick and I didn't just spend a traumatic and exhaustive hour and a half for nothing," Bruce muttered.

"No," she assured him. "It was very necessary for us to get a look inside his head."

"Is . . . Is there any chance that his personality was affected?"

"Little to none," she told him. "Personality is situated in the frontal lobe. Pretty much everything we found in the scan indicates all swelling and bruising was limited to a small area in the temporal lobe."

"He's been asking difficult questions about his parents," Bruce told her. "I don't know how much to tell him or even if I should tell him anything at all." He glanced down at the boy, checking to see if he had woken and was listening. He didn't want Dick to learn all about the difficult subjects all at once and preferably not this soon.

"I would avoid the upsetting subjects as much as possible for now," she said. "Try to redirect him by telling him safe 'stories' from his past. I'm not sure how much you actually know about his parents and early life, but you could tell him things about his life with you and Alfred. Perhaps you can ask him leading questions that might spark his memories."

"As much as I would love to follow that advice, avoiding the question of where his real parents are right now, will be difficult, if I know Dick."

Leslie smiled softly. He looked good cradling the boy in his arms. Bruce was born for this, she thought. He fit this image far better than he did as the Batman. She wasn't sure he would want to hear that particular thought.

"You realize that you are the closest thing he has to a 'real' parent, don't you," she asked him. At his silence, she added, "Fatherhood looks good on you, Bruce."

"Anything else you need to tell me," he redirected the conversation back to what was necessary, but even Leslie could see that he was pleased with the compliment, even as he was uncomfortable with it.

"His X-rays were surprisingly clear. No broken bones, amazingly enough," she was pleased to announce. "What he does have is deep tissue bruising, and a lot of it. It is very painful, and that is what is making breathing difficult for him. It isn't hard to take a breath," she explained. "It just hurts him to do so.

"What concerns me is the fact that there were no burns or markings on his chest at all from the use of a defibrillator," Leslie frowned deeply, as if that smile had never existed.

Bruce's expression matched hers. "Meaning what exactly?"

"Meaning that there is strong evidence that those 'triggers' as you call them, caused Dick's heart to go into cardiac arrest. Dr. Crane," she sneered derisively at the man's title; "chose to not use a defibrillator to revive him. Instead, he chose to allow Dick to flatline before resorting to life-saving techniques like CPR and, I would hazard a guess, medications like Vasopressin or epinephrine," she swirled a finger over her sternum to remind him of the bruise in the shape of a hand print on the child's chest. "And . . ." she continued. "He did it multiple times."

Bruce blinked at her and the implications to which she was referring. It was what he had been suspecting since last night after he saw the heart monitor and defibrillator surrounding the damned chair.

"Bruce," she looked him in the eye now. "Dick literally died yesterday; I suspect at least four times. That is why he has so much bruising on his chest. I am certain that it is contributing to Dick's Anomia and Amnesia conditions, as well as his continuing hearing problems. For a time, a short time but several of them, his brain was starved for oxygen. That his problems aren't many times worse than this is, in my opinion, a miracle straight from God!"

* * *

**Reactions? Yes, I researched this a bit, and this is all possible problems one might have from an injury of this sort where it is located. Actually speech problems are common with this type of injury as well, but other than Anomia, which is real, btw, Dick won't have any of those. **

**Look for two or more chapters on Wednesday. Now that we've cuddled, and soul-searched, and scanned our way inside both Bruce and Dick's heads, it is time for things to begin picking up. If you are not biting your nails in anticipation, you've skipped the first 19 chapters of this story and don't know me at all. ;D  
**


	21. Breathe, Breathe, Repeat

**Warning: Language . . .**

* * *

It was still daylight when Bruce carried Dick up to his room. They had spent the day in Bruce's study after the boy's CT scan. He felt they had both craved the security of the familiar by the time they had gotten back to the manor, and Dick's gauze blindfold finally came off.

The boy's appetite had yet to be revived unless one set a steaming mug of broth beneath his nose, at which point he would try to gulp the entire contents down. Bruce had to constantly remind him to sip the broth if he didn't want to end up in the bathroom. In the end, however, Dick couldn't manage to take more than a half a mug before his eyes would droop, and he would snuggle up against Bruce's chest or rest his head on the man's leg and drop off for another hour of sleep. It didn't bother the man because he, too, would fall to sleep within minutes of the boy.

So far, the catnaps had been peaceful. No nightmares to plague the child or haunt Bruce. He prayed that it would continue that way, but knew that it was only exhaustion that kept the bad dreams at bay.

Opening the door to the room across from his own, Bruce threw on the light. "So, what do you think? Does it look familiar to you?"

Dick looked around the room, curiously. From his expression, nothing jumped out at him. It was strange that the boy would remember Bruce's study over the room that the child slept in, but then Dick did spend half his time sleeping in Bruce's bed after a nightmare had awoken him. The nighttime events were a common occurrence in the household, unfortunately.

A gasp brought Bruce to a halt. He glanced around, looking for whatever had caught the boy's eye. There! On the wall across from his bed was the poster Haley had given the child the night CPS had taken him away. It advertised the acrobatic act of The Flying Graysons. In it, Dick's own silhouette was featured prominently between those of his parents.

Was this it? Would he remember finally the deaths of the two most important people in his life? Bruce tightened his hold on the child, hoping to support him in his new-found grief.

"That's cool," the boy said. "Did I know them?"

Startled, Bruce pulled back to look at the boy. "What?"

He pointed at the poster.

Bruce sighed, setting Dick down on the bed. "Dick," he explained. "This is a poster of your family's act. Don't you remember me telling you that John and Mary Grayson were acrobats?"

Dick frowned, staring at the poster. "Ye-ess," he admitted slowly. "But I thought it might be someone else since there are three people in it."

He couldn't help it, Bruce's mouth dropped open. "Dick, that third person is _you_!"

"Seriously?" Dick looked stunned. "I was an acrobat?"

Bruce sat down next to him on the bed, the boy scrambling back a bit to make room. "Dick, you say you remember being Robin. What exactly do you remember about Robin?"

"It's my name," he said, simply. "Or it is my name when I wear a mask."

"Do you know why you wear a mask?"

Dick frowned. "Jeremy said that Batman and I would hang out together and catch bad guys and criminals. I guess we wore masks so those guys wouldn't recognize us."

Jeremy said . . . This was the second time Jeremy was referenced when it came to his knowledge of Robin. "Dick, do you remember nothing about doing those things?"

Dick finally noticed how serious Bruce became and quieted. He bit his lip nervously. Bruce almost cursed when he saw the fear return.

"Dick, tell me what you remember."

"I-I remember sawdust," he began slowly. "I remember animals. I remember crowds of people smiling and clapping. I remember sparkly costumes and . . . and . . ." his face scrunched up. He shook his head.

"And what," Bruce prompted.

"I remember a pretty lady baking in a tiny kitchen. And a man with a . . . He had hair on his lip," Dick laid a finger across his upper lip.

"A moustache," Bruce supplied.

"A moustache," Dick repeated. "He was swinging on a bar."

"A trapeze," Bruce murmured.

"And him telling me to jump; that he would always be there to catch me if I fell." Dick looked down at his hands in his lap. He sucked in a shaky breath, and closed his eyes tight.

"What else do you remember?"

Dick shook his head violently, and then after a moment, he seemed to relax, his breathing calmed. "I remember you in the study working . . . At your desk."

Bruce frowned. He remembered nothing else about his family and the circus?

"I remember Alfred standing in a big kitchen making cookies. And you reading the paper at the breakfast table . . . And you sitting on this bed beside me, reading me a book," Dick was talking a bit faster now.

"I remember . . . You walking through the front door with a . . . suitcase?"

"A briefcase. I carry important papers to and from the office in it." Bruce nodded.

I remember . . . Alfred dusting. Riding in the back of a car, like the one we rode in earlier. I remember you standing at the front door wearing a fancy suit as Alfred fixed your tie . . ."

Bruce tilted his head in thought. He remembered twice as much about being here with him and Alfred than he did about the circus and his family. But he seemed to withdraw from the memories rather than being unable to remember them. And then there was the fact that he hadn't mentioned anything about Batman or being Robin in his accounting. Bruce began to think that Dick's amnesia was something more than the result of an injury. Perhaps Leslie was right in that his amnesia was related more to his emotional trauma than to his physical one.

As he watched, a tear dripped off of his face and plopped onto the back of his hand. No one moved as the droplet slid over the curve of his hand; picking up speed as the angle increased. And then . . . A soft voice whispered from that bowed head.

"Why couldn't _you_ be my dad?"

And just like that Bruce's heart broke.

He reached for the boy and the same time Dick launched himself at him. He held the boy as he sobbed against his shoulder; rocking him, and murmuring softly words meant to comfort.

"_You_ came for me," he sobbed harder. It was difficult to understand him, but once Bruce did, the words became etched in his heart. "You found me when I needed you! You beat up those bad guys, and took me away from them . . . _You_ brought me home . . . _You_ kept me safe!"

Dick hugged Bruce with a desperate strength that was surprising when one considered his condition. He held on like he was never letting go. Bruce held him close, one hand reaching up to cup his head in its large palm as he continued to rock the child.

"It was _you_ who was there to catch me when I fell . . ." He cried. "_**You**_ saved me! _He_ didn't!"

More than anything, Bruce didn't want to speak. He didn't want to tell him, but he didn't have a choice. He couldn't let Dick think that his parents didn't love him enough to come for him when he was hurt and scared.

"He would have come for you, Dick, if he could have," Bruce told him. "If he'd been able to, he would have caught you."

Dick looked up at Bruce right then; those lovely blue eyes so full of pain. "But he didn't," he said, sadly. "He couldn't . . . He couldn't because he couldn't even save himself! He couldn't even save Mom! He couldn't catch anyone because he fell! He's dead, and he won't ever be there to catch me again!"

So he did remember. Bruce tugged him tight against his chest. "I'm sorry, Dick. But it wasn't his fault. There was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do . . ."

"_You_ could have . . ." came a watery voice; soft again as the violence of his earlier declarations receded.

"I . . . I should have, I know, chum." Pain lanced through his heart at that tiny accusation like a bullet.

"If you fell . . ." the voice continued. "If it had been you who fell, _you_ could have caught yourself. _You _would have been able to save yourself, and probably Mom, too! _You _wouldn't have left me . . . _You_ would have still been able to be there to catch me when I needed you."

Thin arms tightened their hold on him, as Bruce began to understand. It hadn't been an accusation, but a comparison . . .

"I want _**you**_ to be my dad."

* * *

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Dick had managed to render him speechless.

Bruce didn't think the first time Robin had called him Dad when he was still inside that cage he had remembered that his first family had perished. No, he had still been too confused, and going on the faulty speculations that Jeremy Cantor had given him.

This revelation had obviously come later. He had never said a word about remembering it though, but had kept it to himself as he pondered the implications left by that long-ago tragedy. But somewhere along the line the blame in his mind had shifted. He wasn't thinking that Zucco had taken his parents away, or that Batman should have somehow been there to save them. Instead, he was blaming his father for not being able to save himself and because of that inability; he had left his young son at the uncertain mercies of an uncaring world.

"Ah, Dick," he said to him. "There is nothing I'd like more . . . But Gotham's courts . . ."

Dick pulled back, interrupting him. "Good," he grinned, wiping at the tear tracks on his cheeks with the back of one hand. "It's settled, then . . . _Dad_!"

"What?"

Bruce had gotten lost somewhere. When had it been settled? The courts had refused his original petition for adoption because of his marital status, or rather because of his lack of one. The best he could hope for was the judge allowing him to remain the boy's permanent guardian. He, of course, just discovered that the guardianship wasn't enough for him either, but he didn't want to get the boy's hopes up only to have them crushed under Gotham's Child Protective Services figurative boot heel.

"What," Dick repeated, happily. "I want you to be my dad, and you said you wanted for me to be your son . . ." The smile faltered, and doubt entered those blue, blue eyes. "Didn't you mean that?"

Bruce hated that uncertain flicker of fear that he spotted. "Of course, I did," and it was true. "But it is Gotham's court system and Child Protective Services that have the final say in it. They aren't thrilled even that I am your guardian. They think you should be placed with a family that has both a father and a mother."

Dick frowned, and Bruce instantly missed that glimpse of happiness he had been given. "Could they take me away?"

"No!" Bruce answered instantly, and then groaned. "I mean, technically yes. But not unless it can be proven that I am unfit."

Dick tilted his head at that. "I don't get it. How can they do that?"

"They would need to prove I was abusing you or that you were being neglected, which," he sighed, "is pretty much the same thing."

"Then there is nothing to worry about," Dick smiled.

It warmed his heart to see. "Except if word got out about your injuries. Leslie put it forward that you were in an accident while riding your quad bike. But if anyone got a good look at that hand print on your chest and all those bruises . . . CPS would have you out of here in a heartbeat. And that is but another reason we wear masks. Can you imagine what would happen if people knew we were Batman and Robin? I would be behind bars for more than being a vigilante."

"But you being Batman should make me the safest kid in the world!"

Bruce shook his head. "That I allow you to be Robin at all would say otherwise. Dick, there are child endangerment laws that I ignore every time I let you put on your mask. If people knew . . . Well, it would be a witch hunt. And, to tell the truth, I have no defense against it."

Dick was incensed on his behalf. "But you've trained me! You've shown me how to protect myself and be safe out there!"

"For the most part, chum, but let's not forget the past week. I train you and give you rules to follow to help you be safer, but it doesn't make you safe." Bruce waved a hand that encompassed all of Dick's body. "Case in point."

"That's not fair!"

"That's not the issue. Life isn't safe, and exposing you to the criminal elements on an almost nightly basis is not making it any safer for you."

"What are you trying to say," Dick asked; his eyes huge in his face. "That I can't be Robin anymore?"

Bruce looked at him seriously. "Do you even still _want_ to be Robin anymore? That should be the question you should be asking. I don't even know how much you remember of it."

"I . . . I remember . . . enough," Dick muttered, looking down again.

Bruce sighed, scooting the boy the rest of the way off of his lap and back onto the bed. He stood up. "Look, this isn't even something we should be discussing on your first night home. As of right now, being Robin is a non-issue until you've had a chance to recover."

He picked the boy up, and carried him to the adjoining bathroom to brush his teeth. Dick usually managed his own nighttime ritual on his own, or if he needed help, Alfred was on hand. But Bruce had a feeling that he would be in Dick's back pocket for a while; following him around until this ice that hadn't left his veins in almost a week's time finally melted.

The boy's weakness was pressed upon him once more when Dick couldn't manage to untwist the cap on his toothpaste by himself. He was swaying on the counter next to his sink. Bruce gave the lid a little turn, grunting as if it were difficult for him as well, and gave it back to him. Just the act of brushing his teeth, exhausted the boy, particularly after that painful crying jag earlier.

Bruce helped him wash the tear stains from his face, and then tried to wipe off some of the toothpaste drips than dotted his pajama top. He grunted in disgust as he looked at the now soaked top. He had only made it worse.

"Come on," Bruce said, sweeping the giggling child off of the counter and into his room. "Let's get you changed into some fresh pajamas. You can't sleep in something wet."

He set Dick on the bed, and moved to his dresser; pulling random drawers open until he found the one he was looking for. Bruce pursed his lips as he looked at the Superman logo pajamas lying on top of the pile in a place of honor. He still wanted to strangle Alfred for buying them for him. But they were Dick's favorite pajamas . . . He almost wished he wasn't so paranoid, so he could buy Dick Batman pajamas instead. They had them in the stores. He secretary had showed him a pair that she had bought her nephew for his birthday during her lunch hour.

He shook the thought away. The boy would freeze in his wet clothes while he contemplated how to strangle a two hundred and sixty pound alien without the aid of kryptonite. He snatched up the pajamas, and shook them out.

A huge gasp had him swinging around, looking for the threat; Dick's pajamas hanging loosely in one hand.

Dick's eyes were enormous; filled with stark terror, and staring . . . Staring . . . At what? He looked down at the innocent blue and red pajamas with Superman's logo all over them, and back up at Dick just as he screamed. And screamed. And screamed again.

"DICK!" Bruce dropped the clothes and leapt for the boy. He caught him by his shoulders and gaped in horror at the pain and sheer terror on Dick's face. The boy's eyes fought to focus on his, pleading with Bruce to not let him fall . . .

His hands were clawing at his pajama top – No! At his chest! The screams stopped only to be replaced with rapid-fire gasps as the boy began hyperventilating. He fell back onto the bed, seizing up; his body rigid!

"ALFRED," he roared, just as the butler came bursting through the door.

"Alfred, oh, God, _help_ _me_," He begged. "I think we just found the second trigger!"

Dick's eyes rolled back into his head as he lost consciousness, and collapsed.

"NO! SHIT!" Bruce cursed. "NO, DAMN IT!"

Alfred checked the boy's pulse in his wrist. After a few seconds, he reached for the pulse in his neck, before finally laying his head over the boy's chest. He yanked the boy up and laid him on the floor.

"He's going into cardiac arrest. His heart is merely fluttering; not capable of pushing blood throughout the body," Alfred explained as he ripped the pajama top open. "BRUCE! I need you to start CPR on him right now!"

Bruce, still stunned at the suddenness and speed of the attack, groped desperately in an effort to follow the elder man's instructions. Had this been a physical attack by an armed thug, he wouldn't have blinked before leaping into action, but this! This left him feeling shocked and helpless.

He placed his hand on top of the hated hand print and started chest compressions. He glanced up as the butler pushed his way to his feet and ran toward the door.

"Wait! Where are you going? _Alfred_!"

Alfred didn't pause, but yelled over his shoulder. "To the Batcave! I need the AED from the medical bay, and the epinephrine. It's the boy's only hope!"

Bruce paused to adjust Dick's head to open an airway. He pinched Dick's nostrils, and breathed for him – once, then twice! Back to the compressions . . . One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand . . . Until he reached thirty. Then it was back to his head. Open the airway, breathe, breathe, repeat the chest compressions.

"Come on, Dick! Come on! I _swear_ to you that I won't let you fall, but you can't give up! You can't let that bastard win . . . _Please_! _Don't leave me_," Bruce begged.

Breathe, breathe, repeat . . .

Breathe, breathe, repeat . . .

* * *

**Reactions? Come on, give me your honest opinions . . . Another chapter is on the way, I promise. Check in later tonight for the second part to this cliffhanger. Just how many times can he go through this, you have to wonder? Thank God, it's fiction!**


	22. Having Faith

**Warning: Some Language**

* * *

Dick stood in his room watching Bruce give him CPR. He had never seen him react like this. It was distressing! He watched as tears poured down his face as he begged Dick to come back to him; each word punctuated by a compression.

He turned and looked behind him. The spirit was standing in front of the open door of his room. The light was coming from the hall beyond his doorway; in the direction of the stairs. It was very bright this time; much brighter than before. It made him curious to follow it and see where it was coming from. He took a step in that direction, but the spirit raised his hand stopping him.

He looked so sad. It made Dick sad, too. But the light made people happy! He wasn't sure how he knew that, but he was certain of it. Maybe the two of them could go follow it together?

"Don't you want to see it? It's so pretty," Dick asked him. "It's right behind you! Look!"

The boy grimaced, and shook his head. He pointed to a spot behind Dick.

Dick looked behind him at Bruce working so hard over his body. He would miss him. A cold hand on his shoulder brought his attention back to the spirit. The boy pointed again as he stared at him.

"I know," Dick said. "You want me to go back." He sighed. "But what if I don't want to? I'm so tired. Just watching makes me tired."

The spirit shook his head sadly. He continued to point.

"Why can't you just talk to me," Dick cried out suddenly. "All you do is just point!"

Just then Alfred came barreling back into the room. He flew through the spirit's body, and passed just as smoothly through Dick's as well. But it was startling! Just as the spirit's touch was as cold as ice, Alfred's had been warm and left him tingling like he had been shocked by static electricity! It had left Dick gasping!

"What was that?"

The spirit took Dick's hand and tugged him forward; toward the two men. It was a struggle! Every step was like pulling his feet out of knee-high molasses. The spirit tugged at him. Dick trudged forward slowly; dragging his feet. As he neared the two men and his body, he added discomfort to the exhaustion he felt he was drowning in.

Behind him the light beckoned.

The spirit pushed his hand towards Bruce's shoulder. Dick frowned, curious if he would feel the same warm tingling as he had with Alfred. He reached for Bruce's shoulder.

* * *

"Alfred, we're losing him!" Bruce yelled.

The butler was the epitome of calm as he hurriedly connected the AED pads to Dick's chest; one higher near his right collarbone, the other was place under and to the side of his left nipple. He pushed Bruce back as he turned the machine on and watched as it read the boy's pulse.

Nothing!

"Continue with the CPR, sir," Alfred tugged a couple of clear vials from his pocket with a tourniquet and packets of single use syringes.

He tugged on a pair of gloves, placed a tourniquet on Dick's arm, and inserted a PICC line into the vein. He taped it into place, quickly opened a packet, and measured out 3ml of epinephrine. He then injected the adrenaline through the PICC. His practiced hand managed it all in less than ninety seconds.

Soon he was pushing Bruce back out of the way once more, checking the boy for a pulse with the machine. Again, nothing!

"Continue," he told Bruce as he readied the next injection.

Bruce was sweating. His perspiration was mixing with the tears flowing down his face. He just _found_ him, and now he was going to lose him all over again? It wasn't fair! He snorted, realizing he sounded exactly like Dick had just . . . Oh God, was it only minutes ago?

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Alfred injected more epinephrine into Dick's system. He moved to breathe for the boy. One breath; two breaths. Alfred pushed him back. Again the machine registered no pulse!

Dear _God,_ the trigger worked incredibly fast! _Too fast_! If he hadn't been here . . . If Dick had went to change into his pajamas by himself . . . He would have been dead long before Bruce or Alfred would have found him! And Crane, the bastard, wanted to sell this to the highest bidder? Bruce took back what he had thought earlier about having a life if one knew of his trigger. There was no way one could prepare himself for this!

On this went, Bruce begging Dick to fight this; to stay with him; continuing the CPR, stopping only to check for a pulse. Why did he put himself through this? He barely survived the deaths of his parents! _This_! This was so much more worse than that . . . How could he ever hope to live through this?

He . . .H-he couldn't. His own heart was threatening to give out on him. But that bastard, Crane, wouldn't get away with this. If Dick died, there would be nowhere on the planet that son of a bitch could hide.

* * *

Dick's hand passed through Bruce's shoulder. He knew he wasn't solid, so he didn't know why he hadn't been prepared. He nearly fell through him and back into his own body!

_His own __body_!

Dick turned and stared at the spirit. "You tried to trick me!"

The spirit looked regretful and oh, so sad . . . He pointed at Alfred who had just finished measuring out yet another dose of some kind of medicine, and was even now injecting into the IV port. Dick felt a stab of pain in his heart, and slapped a hand over the offending organ.

"Ow! What was that?"

The spirit didn't answer; only pointed at Bruce.

Dick looked at the man who had taken him into his own home after his parents had died. He remembered thinking when he had met him, that this man understood his pain. He was practically from a different world than he was and yet he knew – _he knew_ exactly what was going on inside of Dick!

Bruce wasn't demonstrative, and handed out compliments like he handed out blood; grudgingly, sparingly, and not very often. But Dick saw his heart. It was always there . . . in his eyes. The words were great, but he had noticed that many people who compliment you were merely being polite. The compliment was on their lips, but not in their eyes. With Bruce, Dick had always known when he had pleased the man, and when he was disappointed – all without saying a word.

As he watched, Alfred pushed him away again. Bruce sat back on his heels, leaning on one hand as he wiped his face with the other. Dick wondered if he were disappointed in him now. He kneeled down beside the man who was struggling, but doing his best, to be a father to him. He looked at his face; at his eyes. His lips were moving. Dick leaned in closer to listen.

* * *

Bruce stared at the machine with desperate eyes; willing it to show something! As he waited, he whispered . . . "_Please_, don't take him from me! I can't lose him now! I-I _love_ him . . . I can't – I can't do this without him!" Bruce's hands buried themselves in the nap of the carpet as he clenched his fists.

He felt something cold brush over him; a breeze of some sort. He didn't think there was a window open. But he didn't get the chance to wonder about it because suddenly there was a beep . . . And then another.

"Oh, my God," he breathed. He was all of a sudden afraid to move, that he might jinx it in some way.

The heart rate was irregular, and the machine beeped a warning.

"Clear," Alfred called, and pressed the button.

Dick's body jumped as electricity surged through him. The heartbeat skipped and fluttered. The machine beeped another warning.

Again, Alfred called, "Clear!"

The boy's body arched up under the second surge. After a moment, the heartbeat on the monitor became regular. His eyes widened as Dick suddenly gasped for breath!

Bruce and Alfred stared at the boy for several intense seconds, but the heartbeat remained steady. Their gazes met over him. The elder man's composure left abruptly as he slumped; one hand going to his face as all of the stress of the past twenty minutes found release through great, bountiful tears . . . beautiful tears of relief and joy!

Bruce picked up one of Dick's hands in both of his, bowing his head. "Thank you. Thank you . . . Thank you," he whispered.

* * *

Even inside Bruce could smell the smoke from the small fire Alfred attended to in the garden. They were taking no chances . . . Dick's Superman pajamas were going to be nothing but ash. The butler planned a very thorough search of the house and the cave to make certain there was nothing left that bore Clark's symbol.

The room was dark except for the patch of light coming from the en suite bathroom. It was enough that Bruce could make out the small refrigerator they had placed on the edge of the dresser containing several more vials of epinephrine. Beside it were boxes containing gloves and packets of fresh syringes. On the night stand rested the AED. Tomorrow he would have more supplies delivered, and have a machine place in every room that Dick ever spent time in.

Alfred was moving into a guest room next door temporarily. They would be wearing radios to be able to contact the other if one was out of earshot. One person would remain with Dick at all times. He wouldn't be going in to work tomorrow either. Both he and Dick have "caught" the newest strain of the flu, and would be out of the office or school for the next couple of weeks. Bruce just prayed that that would be long enough to discover the antidote.

He would have to have Leslie come and check him out again tomorrow. Alfred had assured him that Dick was fine for now, and barring a midnight visit from Superman, should be fine until morning.

Bruce frowned. A midnight visit from Superman was entirely possible . . . Once Alfred came back in, Bruce would head to the cave to check on the overgrown boy scout's whereabouts; maybe send him a warning to stay away. Then again, that just might make him curious enough to fly over to see what was up. If he did, Bruce was pulling out the kryptonite!

Despite being able to hear Dick breathing, Bruce couldn't help from keeping a hand on his wrist; constantly feeling the flutter of his pulse under his fingers. His breathing was just as labored now as it had been when Batman had found him in that damned cage Crane had chained him in. Now, he understood why . . . It pissed him off that Dick now bore new bruises on his chest to add to the bevy of them already there; bruises he had had to give him just to keep him alive!

Bruce had almost lost him again tonight. Laying here on the bed with him; his hand on his pulse; his breathing in his ear . . . Bruce felt more scared now than he had while performing CPR on him. He could lose him tomorrow or the day after that, or the day after that . . .

He couldn't take that kind of uncertainty. This was going to kill him! He HAD to discover Cantor's antidote, and he had to do it now! But he had learned something new tonight. He had learned that he wouldn't survive losing this boy . . . _His __son_!

* * *

Later that night, Dick woke to Bruce slipping into bed behind him. He watched as Alfred quietly closed the door behind him as he left the room. Bruce picked up his wrist, his fingers expertly searching out his pulse. He made himself comfortable, keeping Dick's wrist held loosely in his hand. After several long minutes, Bruce's breathing slowed as sleep settled on him.

Dick looked around the room. When he found him in the corner, he smiled. "I wondered where you were," he whispered. "I was afraid you had gone away forever."

The spirit stepped out of the shadows, crossing the rectangle of light coming from the bathroom. He looked completely solid to Dick now, although he noticed that the spirit cast no shadow. The spirit stopped a few feet from the bed.

"You keep sending me back," Dick accused him. "You know I can't remember everything that happens when I'm there with you once I come back here. If you want me to do something, you are going to have to find a way to tell me here, in the living world."

The spirit glanced at Bruce's sleeping form. Dick turned his head and looked down at the man. He had done it again . . . Bruce had caught him when he fell. That was why every memory of him made Dick feel safe. He looked back at the spirit.

"I don't think he's planning on going away any time soon," Dick told him softly, so as not to disturb his guardian. "Why is this so important to you? Why me?"

The spirit pointed at himself.

Dick frowned. "You. This is important to you, too?"

The spirit smiled and nodded.

"Why? Can you do something to help me understand?"

The spirit looked around the room. He walked to the dresser, away from the refrigerator side. He turned and pointed to a picture on Dick's dresser. It was of him and Bruce together. It looked like they had just come in out of the cold. They were dressed warmly in sweaters and their cheeks were red. They both were laughing. Bruce even had a big grin on his face . . . Because . . . Because they had just come inside from having a . . . A fight.

Dick's face scrunched with concentration. A fight with snow! They had made something with it with their hands and had spent the whole afternoon chucking them at each other. The name . . . The name . . . It was something so simple, but he just couldn't think of the word. But instead of getting upset, Dick was just happy that he had another memory.

The spirit was pointing to them both and then to himself.

"Uh . . . You mean, this has something to do with both of us and you."

The spirit nodded, and then shook his head; a combination that Dick interpreted to mean both yes and no. The spirit looked around again. He pointed to the poster of the Flying Graysons next; specifically at Dick's mother; then at himself.

"You mean, your family?" A nod. "_Your_ mother."

The spirit smiled. He pointed to the female silhouette again, and then to himself.

"This has something to do with you and your mother!" Dick's voice rose slightly, and Bruce opened his eyes to look at Dick.

"Oh, sorry," Dick said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"That's okay, chum. Who were you talking to?" Bruce glanced around the room, but saw nothing.

Dick's eyes flitted to the spirit. The boy shrugged his shoulders and melted back into the shadows. He didn't disappear completely. Dick could still see his outline. He wasn't leaving him, but apparently their talk was over for the night.

"No one. Just thinking out loud," he said.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Dick smiled, but shook his head. "No, that's okay. You should go back to sleep," he said.

"So should you. You've had a really rough day today," Bruce told him. "How are you feeling? Can you breathe all right?"

Dick nodded. "My chest hurts, but not much more than it did before . . . Um, Dad," he asked.

Bruce blinked at the title. Dick could tell he was still uncomfortable with it. He thought that maybe he felt a little guilty, as if he were taking something from Dick's father, but he was wrong. Bruce was taking nothing. It was Dick who was doing the giving. Eventually, Dick knew, Bruce would accept.

"What is it, Dick," he finally asked.

"I just wanted to thank you," he smiled at Bruce. "You know . . . For catching me again."

Bruce smiled tightly. A lot of emotion was locked up in that smile, Dick thought. His eyes were warm, though, and he thought, maybe even happy.

"You're welcome, pal," Bruce whispered. He hesitated a moment, and then slid one hand behind Dick's head, gently bending him closer. He pressed their foreheads together for a long moment, and then pulling back, pressed his lips to that same spot. "I'll _always_ be there to catch you," he promised.

Dick smiled and laid his head back on the pillows. This time, he thought . . . _This_ time, Dick knew he could have faith in the promise made.

* * *

**So, what did you think? Reactions? More tomorrow (2 chapters planned) . . . Maybe soon we'll find out the story behind the spirit boy.**

**PICC line: Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter. It is inserted into the vein so that medicines could be given quickly or often without having to locate and stick the vein every time. Alfred would probably insist upon it staying in at all times until an antitoxin is developed, just in case. Anyway, I couldn't remember the name of this thing to save my life. My nursing buddy wasn't picking up her phone, and Google was NOT cooperating. So, a BIG thank you to _Leradomi_ for the heads up! **


	23. Spiritual Revelations

**No warnings . . . Other than a glimpse into one possible future.**

* * *

"You can go, you know. I'm not a baby," Dick complained to Bruce.

"I know that, chum. But can you blame me for wanting to keep an eye on you," Bruce quirked his mouth into a half smile, and lifted an eyebrow.

Dick sighed. "I suppose not," he grumbled, watching Bruce reading through some reports.

The man sat in the chair, but had his feet propped up on the side of the bed. He needed to look for some papers he had left down in his study, but Alfred had gone into town after Leslie had left, and Bruce absolutely refused to leave him alone in the room for the five or ten minutes it might take him to go downstairs, find them, and return. He was apparently terrified that Dick would die in the time it would take him to do this one tiny chore.

Normally, he was pretty sure it was normally, Dick thought he would revel in Bruce's company, but the spirit was loitering in the darkest corner of his room, waiting for his chance to tell Dick his story. And Dick wanted to hear it. He wanted to know what the spirit wanted from him.

Dick looked at the empty mug sitting on his bedside table. It had taken a while, but he had finally managed to finish an entire serving of the broth. He wasn't really hungry, but maybe, just maybe he could convince Bruce to heat up some more broth for him. He could gather his papers while it was heating, also. Dick might actually get fifteen minutes of privacy if he could convince Bruce that he was starving.

Dick picked up the mug, tilting it as he stared into its hollow depths. He looked sad as he attempted to locate even just one drop of the cold liquid to ease his parched tongue. He saw Bruce in his periphery glance up from his report. Dick sighed, dropping the hand holding the empty mug into his lap forlornly.

"What's the matter, Dick?"

Hah! Dick was careful to not allow his triumphant grin to escape. The fish had taken the bait!

"I'm kind of hungry," he said, not looking at the man beside him. "The broth tasted really good this morning. How long will it be before Alfred gets back?"

Alfred was running some errands for Bruce, shopping for groceries, and picking up Dick's school assignments. Dick had overheard the two men talking about Alfred needing to get back before the new AEDs and other medical supplies arrived . . . about two hours from now. That meant that Alfred wouldn't be returning for another hour and a half.

"Hm, not for a little while yet." Bruce straightened his report and set it on the bedside table next to the current AED. "Do you think you can wait?"

"Can I have a book to read? Maybe it can take my mind off of it. It only hurts a little bit," he said; playing his trump card. Bruce hated for him to be in pain.

Bruce leaned forward, setting his hand on Dick's forehead. Dick rolled his eyes at him. "I'm hungry, not feverish, Dad."

He enjoyed the stunned look Bruce got on his face every time Dick called him 'Dad'. He may have been using it a tad more than necessary simply because of that particular perk. If he were consistent and patient, Bruce would begin to acknowledgment his new title with something akin to acceptance. Until then, Dick planned to enjoy the show.

Bruce pulled his hand back with a grunt. Dick smiled weakly and pointed to a book on his shelf; 'John Carter of Mars' by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Bruce stood up and plucked the book off of the shelf. He flipped through it suspiciously.

"It has illustrations," he complained.

"So?" Even crossing his arms still elicited a grimace. Dick leaned back on his pillows.

"Dick, you have two more triggers that we know nothing about. We can't risk you seeing something that could set one of them off; particularly when I'm the only one here."

Dick frowned. "Why would you being with me by yourself be a problem? You know CPR!"

"It took two of us to save you last night," he said, looking away.

It was obvious how seeing the trigger activated had bothered Bruce. Nearly losing Dick had truly shaken the man up. Another reason Dick didn't want to tell Bruce about his out of body experiences . . . Last night, they hadn't saved him. Dick had chosen to return after hearing Bruce's prayer. He had been prepared to leave this time. Except for the spirit's coaxing, and then seeing how badly Bruce had wanted him back, he would have gone on. It was just becoming too difficult to remember why he wanted to live once he was standing on the other side. It scared him to think that maybe the next time, even Bruce's pain wouldn't be enough.

But it didn't scare him so much that he wouldn't risk reading a book.

"If I read a book without illustrations, would that satisfy you?"

Bruce sat on the bed next to him, and ruffled his hair. "It would help, but until you are cured, everything will probably worry me."

"I really don't think Dr. Crane was implanting subliminal images from one of Edgar Rice Burroughs' books on the off chance that I might see that particular illustration in that particular book," Dick huffed.

It was a reasonable argument. So far the two images that had been triggers had been directly related to Robin's crime-fighting career. The debate was ended even before it could truly begin by a rumble coming from Dick's stomach. Both of them looked a little surprised by the noise. Dick hadn't realized that he was actually hungry, he thought he was only pretending to be.

Glancing at his watch, the man pursed his lips. "If you are really that hungry; I don't want to make you wait that long to eat." Bruce looked torn.

"If I promise not to start reading until after you get back, will that convince you to go?"

"It'll take a few minutes to heat up the broth," Bruce warned.

Dick smiled at him. "You could use that time to gather the rest of your papers from your study while it's heating."

"I hate to leave you that long."

"_Bru-u-uce_ . . ." Dick fell back against his pillows and pulled one over his face.

Bruce laughed. "Okay, okay . . . I'll go _on_ the condition that you do absolutely nothing in the meantime."

"Can I breathe," Dick muttered sarcastically, lifting a corner of the pillow up.

"You could probably do that easier without a pillow over your face," Bruce snatched it up and tossed it onto Dick's lap instead. "Yes, you can breathe while I'm gone . . . just do so carefully."

Dick rolled his eyes, but grinned anyway.

Becoming serious again, Bruce handed him Alfred's radio to use. "Use that if you need me," he said. "For whatever reason . . . If you feel sick, dizzy, get scared; it doesn't matter."

Dick didn't complain. He didn't like to see the worry in Bruce's eyes. "I promise," he said. "I'll call you if I need you."

A hint of smile curved the edges of Bruce's lips. "See that you do. I'll come running."

With one last look, Bruce turned to walk out of the room.

"Dad?" Dick grinned to hear a slightly heavier footfall than usual that indicated Bruce had almost stumbled.

His head peeked around the corner. "What is it?"

"Do you think Alfred has any pudding stashed away down there," Dick asked hopefully. Pudding sounded good to him. His stomach apparently agreed as it rumbled loudly.

"Hm, I think you're still on clear liquids, kiddo, but I'll see what I can do." Bruce disappeared.

Dick waited a moment longer, and then turned to where the spirit was stepping out from the corner.

"Well, better get started," he told him. "He won't be gone long."

The spirit pointed to the poster.

"You and your mother," Dick nodded. He remembered this part.

The spirit moved back to the dresser. He pointed to a red toy car sitting on top.

"You and your mother were in a car," Dick surmised. So far, so good. This wasn't too hard.

The spirit nodded. He then made a frightened face . . . It was astonishing how scary he looked, even though it was the spirit that was supposed to be frightened. Perhaps it was because he was already dead?

Dick had to spend some time thinking about this before it clicked. Of course! It all made sense. The spirit showed up because Crane was testing the new toxin on Robin, and he now knew that Crane was the Scarecrow.

"The Scarecrow's fear toxin! You're saying that your mother drove through some of the Scarecrow's fear toxin!"

The spirit nodded. He looked at the little car with a determined look, and then bent down and touched it. With intense concentration on his face, he pushed the car forward. Dick sat up, startled, as the car began to moved slowly across the dresser. He didn't know that the spirit could actually move things in the living world!

As the toy neared the end of the dresser, it suddenly leaped forward; flying off of the edge of the dresser to bang off of the wall, and then fell to the floor with a thump. The spirit turned to look at him expectantly.

Dick slowly and carefully crawled to the end of the bed, and stared at the car. It was lying on its side; its wheels were still spinning. He looked up at the spirit with sympathy.

"Your mother drove through the fear toxin and crashed the car," he said, softly.

The spirit looked so sad. He nodded.

"She died," he asked.

The spirit shook his head and then nodded. No, Dick thought, and then yes.

Confused, he shook his head. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

He pointed to the wrecked car, and then shook his head.

"Okay, she didn't die in the accident."

He nodded. Then he pointed to the car, and then at himself. He watched Dick intently.

Dick frowned. "_You_! _You _were in the car with her . . . And it was _you_ who died in the accident!"

The spirit nodded.

"So, do you need me to give her a message?"

The spirit looked so sad as he shook his head.

"Then what? If you don't need me to give her a message, why did you come to me? Why was my coming back so important? And why, now that I'm back, are you still here?"

The spirit pointed to the car, and then to himself again.

"Yes, I got that part. You died in the wreck, but your mother didn't."

The spirit pointed to the silhouette of Dick's mother, and then walked to the refrigerator. He pointed to the pill bottle on top of the refrigerator that contained his painkillers.

It took him a moment. Mostly because he didn't want to understand what he thought the spirit was trying to tell him. But once the idea flitted through, his mind latched onto it and wouldn't let go. This is why the spirit looked so sad most of the time.

"Your mother killed herself?" Dick felt tears well up in his eyes. "Because you died, she became so sad that she took too much medicine, and died, too."

As he watched, a tear slid down the spirit's cheek. He nodded.

"I'm so sorry."

The spirit walked over to stand directly in front of Dick. He pointed his finger at Dick's chest, actually touching him. A wave of cold slid through him, and his heart stuttered. Dick gasped, grasping his chest at the touch of death.

The spirit pulled its finger back an inch, and stared hard at him. He shook his head slowly.

Dick blinked, and tilted his head. "I can't die," he said, finally.

The spirit nodded. He stepped back and pointed to the picture of him and Bruce; specifically at Bruce.

Dick stared, and then looked alarmed. "No," he whispered. "You can't mean that."

The spirit nodded.

"Are you saying that if I die, that Bruce will die, too?" Dick prayed he was wrong.

The spirit nodded. He pointed to the pills.

Dick gasped, shaking his head. "He will kill himself?"

The spirit nodded.

Dick shook his head vigorously. "No! No, you're wrong! Bruce wouldn't take pills!"

The spirit shook his head, and with deliberation, knocked the pill bottle over. Dick watched it roll off the edge and fall to the floor.

"You're saying he will kill himself, but not with pills?"

The spirit nodded.

"I-I don't believe it! Bruce wouldn't do that! He's too strong," Dick's voice began to rise.

The spirit nodded, then shook his head, and then pointed at Dick.

"What?"

The spirit nodded.

"He would kill himself?"

A nod answered him. The spirit flexed an arm, and then shook his head.

"He's not strong? No, that's not true! He's the strongest person I know!"

The spirit pointed to Dick and shook his head.

Dick blinked. The spirit flexed an arm, shook his head, and pointed to Dick again.

Dick took a breath, hesitated a second, and then spoke. "You are saying that Bruce isn't strong . . . when . . . when it comes to _me_?"

The spirit nodded.

Dick shook his head in denial. "Alfred . . . Alfred wouldn't let him!"

The spirit looked sad. He shook his head.

"How will he do it? I-I mean, if . . . If he were going to do it, how would it happen? He wouldn't shoot himself! Bruce hates guns! His parents were murdered with a gun." Dick didn't even realized that he remembered something new in his upset.

The spirit shook his head. He hesitated, as if he were trying to think of a way to make Dick understand. When he looked up, he covered his upper face with his hands, and then slid his fingers up to make points on either side of his head.

Dick frowned. "His . . . cowl?"

The spirit nodded.

"He'll kill himself as the Batman?"

The spirit nodded.

As much as Dick wanted to deny it, he thought that if Bruce were indeed going to end it all, then that would likely be the way he would do it.

"How," Dick choked. "Falling?" He could imagine it would be so easy; just let go . . .

The spirit shook his head. He made a fist and hit the other palm.

"Fighting?" Dick watched the spirit nod. "He would lose a fight to a criminal?"

The spirit nodded.

"On purpose?" He had to get this right in his head. "Bruce would intentionally lose a fight with a criminal? He would allow the villain to win?" He couldn't imagine this.

The spirit nodded and shook his head.

"I don't understand. You are saying that he would and he wouldn't."

Dick scrunched up his face in concentration. His headache was returning. He rubbed the side of his head as he rolled this information around. The spirit said that Bruce wasn't strong when it came to him, and that he would lose a fight to a criminal on purpose, but not on purpose . . . How?

"He would stop caring . . ." Dick didn't need to look up at the spirit to know this was right. "He would stop being careful because he would no longer care if he lived or died . . . And someone would kill him." He let his gaze travel back up to the ghost of a boy in front of him.

The spirit nodded.

"Who?" Dick couldn't remember all of the villains and criminals he and Batman had fought. He barely remembered being Robin at all at the moment. But he needed to know.

The spirit tilted his head, and just looked at Dick as if he should know already.

His eyes widened as a thought entered his head. "Scarecrow?"

The spirit nodded.

* * *

**Reactions? I really want to know . . . **

**When I thought about all those near death experiences that Dick was going to have, the idea that he might come back able to see ghosts was intriguing. (Okay, just ONE ghost - cause I mean, seriously, more than that is, ahem, overkill. Sorry for the pun!) Then the quote from the movie "Sixth Sense" "I see dead people" came to me, and I just couldn't resist it. I don't usually go for the supernatural in stories, but it fit in so nicely with this one. Thus, the spirit was born.  
**

**Yes, I plan another chapter tonight. Probably late for those who are night owls or insomniacs. **


	24. Detective Harlow

**Warning: Language!**

* * *

Bruce carried the loaded tray up the stairs and down the hall. He had a steaming mug of broth and managed to locate some cherry gelatin that Alfred made up for the boy, but no pudding. He made a note to ask the butler if it were too soon to give Dick pudding, and to make some if he could. Bruce hated to deny the boy anything when he asked for so little.

The papers he had needed were tucked to one side. It had taken barely fifteen minutes to accomplish all the tasks. Still, he was anxious to get back and see with his own eyes that Dick was still okay. He could still feel the tremors of fear inside of him, even eighteen hours later. He wondered if they would ever go away. Batman would hardly instill fear in others when he was constantly shaking like a leaf.

"How do I stop it?"

Bruce paused in the hall outside of Dick's door. Who was he talking to? There wasn't a phone in his room, and Bruce's cell was in his pocket. The radio on his belt was turned on and silent. Dick wasn't talking to him.

No other voice answered him. Curious, and maybe a little alarmed, Bruce set the tray down on a nearby side table, and eased over to the doorway. He carefully peered around it, not wanting to alert those in the room of his presence. There was Dick, sitting on his knees at the foot of his bed. He was looking at the wall? The dresser?

Craning his neck a little more, Bruce took in the rest of the room at a glance. No one else was present. He frowned, looking toward the bathroom. The door was open. He couldn't see anyone in there from here.

"_Wait_! Where are you going?" Dick sounded upset. "You have to tell me how to fix this!"

Bruce stepped into the doorway, frowning. "Dick? What's wrong, son? Who are you talking to?"

Dick fell over a bit as he jerked to face him. He caught himself before he could tumble off of the bed, but Bruce scrambled to reach him anyway. He scooped the boy up and moving him back where he was supposed to be, tucked him under the covers. He pushed Dick's hair back out of his eyes, and paused at the tears that glistened there; hovering on the brink of falling.

He sat down on the bed next to the boy; rubbing his hand up and down his upper arm. "What's wrong," he repeated. "Why didn't you call me?"

Dick's lip quivered, and he bit it. He shook his head; looking down at his lap.

"Oh, baby, I can't fix it if you won't tell me what's bothering you?" Bruce tilted his head, bending down to look the boy in the face.

One fat tear dropped, then another. Bruce couldn't stand it. He gathered Dick up in his arms. The boy's thin arms slid around his neck, hugging him tight.

What had happened? He had been gone for a few minutes, only to return to find the boy in tears and distraught. And _who the hell_ had he been talking to?

* * *

This was something Batman was still pondering that evening when he went to Cantor's apartment. Something had upset the boy in those few minutes he was alone. Dick refused to talk to him about it; choosing instead to drink some of the broth he had brought up and eating a few bites of the cherry gelatin before rolling over and pretending to sleep.

He had seemed alright later, however, and Bruce chose to let the matter drop. He was beginning to stay awake for longer periods and seemed happy enough, but there were moments when Bruce had caught him staring out his window, brooding. He couldn't blame him for that though. He would likely be in the same frame of mind if he were stuck in his room, unable to do anything for fear it would inadvertently kill him.

Batman lowered himself onto Cantor's tiny balcony from the roof. Security for this place was a joke. Of course, part of that was because he couldn't afford better and why he had been desperate enough to work for Crane in the first place. In seconds, the sliding glass door was opened, and Batman was inside. He pulled the vertical blinds shut and flipped on a light.

The police had been here. Batman hoped nothing had been removed, but thought it might be a good idea to contact Harlow to verify this. There were papers everywhere, all covered in the chicken scratch that Cantor called writing. He could see several pages filled with chemical formulations that were surprisingly complex. A dry erase board also had mathematical computations . . .

Damn it! Without Cantor here to explain, it could take weeks, even months to figure all of this out. Dick didn't have that kind of time. He turned on the camera in his cowl and began recording; making certain he moved slowly and looked at everything for several seconds. He also pulled out a miniature camera to snap digital pictures of all of the chemistry formulas. He had pissed Harlow off once by destroying evidence; he would try to avoid doing so again.

It took a couple of hours to go through the entire apartment. Cantor had needed to get a life outside of biochemistry, physiology, and psychology. Everywhere he looked, he found notes, files, and scribbled formulas . . . Even on his bathroom mirror! Batman took pictures and filmed all of it. In the end, there were only a handful of papers that he deemed important enough that he felt he needed the originals; those that had similar notes on them as he had found in the man's notebook. He had downloaded everything in Cantor's laptop onto a USB, and tucked it away.

He was just about to let himself back out onto the balcony when he saw the flashing lights of a police cruiser. Batman flicked off the light, and peered through the blinds. It was an unmarked vehicle, and it was parked right outside of Cantor's building. Had someone noticed the lights, and called the cops? He couldn't imagine any of the neighbors caring enough to do so.

Someone was getting out of the vehicle. Batman flicked down the telescopic lenses. There was just enough light from the nearest lamppost for him to determine for certain the man's identity. Behind the lenses, Batman's eyes narrowed.

He was making it a habit of showing up at just the right times. Batman released the blinds, found a nice shadowy spot, and settled in for a wait. He was grateful that the visitor wasn't one for idling. Within a few minutes, the front door was opened by the building's superintendent.

"Thank you," Harlow said. "I appreciate your cooperation. You don't need to wait on me. I'll lock up when I leave."

The door shut, and a light flipped on.

"Hey, Bats," the man whispered. "Are you here?"

He couldn't help it. A ghost of a smile flitted quickly across Batman's face before melting back into his normal grim demeanor. He stepped out of the shadows. Harlow caught the movement at once, and spun in his direction; his service revolver pointed at his chest.

* * *

Harlow let out a breath and shook his head; holstering his weapon as soon as he recognized the other occupant.

"You shouldn't sneak up on a guy like that," he snarked. "You might have given me a heart attack and yourself a new ventilation duct."

Batman nodded. "It's good to see you, too, Detective."

"Call came through dispatch that someone had seen lights on in Mr. Cantor's apartment. I heard it on the scanner while on my way home. Figured it was either you or that Scarecrow fellow creeping about, and told them I would check it out." Harlow scrubbed a hand over his head as he looked around the room. He whistled. "Holy . . . Ain't seen nothing like this before. I have enough trouble helping my third grader with that 'new' math crap they're teaching in school these days."

"What would you have done if it had been Scarecrow greeting you?"

Harlow snorted. "Pissed my pants, screamed like a little girl, and then shot him in the knee. I would read him his rights while we waited for an ambulance."

"Do you really think it would have been that easy," Batman asked him.

Harlow shrugged, not offended. "I could only hope so. I'm not one to let a little fear stop me from doing my job. I could only hope I could do the same when confronted with a lot of it. I don't know. I've never had the pleasure of going up against the Scarecrow before."

"Let's hope you never have to."

"Amen to that, brother," Harlow saluted him with two fingers. "So, are you going to tell me why you are here? I had a feeling you would show after finding Cantor's body at that veterinary hospital a couple of nights ago. Was he the guy who left that letter for you?"

Harlow stopped perusing the apartment to look directly at him. "Please tell me you got your kid back. You found Robin, right? Is he okay?"

Batman nodded. "He was. I did. And he will be."

The detective's shoulders slumped with relief. "Oh, that's good. That's real good! I would have hated to explain to Sam why Robin suddenly dropped off the face of the earth. Unless he's going to . . . Will he be back on the streets soon? Or will you be clipping his wings after this scare?"

"Sam." Batman repeated. "That is the name of your son; the one who runs around the backyard in a yellow blanket."

Harlow wasn't stupid. The Bat was changing the subject. "Yeah. Sam, after my grandfather. Boy's going to be something when he grows up. Loves Batman and Robin, the Lone Ranger, and Robin Hood. While I prefer he wear a badge rather than a mask, he's already got a sense of justice that makes me proud."

"Sounds like he takes after his father," Batman told him.

Harlow laughed, but was pleased with the compliment. "So, why _are_ you here, anyway? Hunting for the Scarecrow? I noticed he was missing from the gang of thugs you left for us."

"I'll be hunting the Scarecrow and his other lab assistant; a woman named Lydia, soon."

"A woman. Now there's an interesting tidbit. We didn't know about a second assistant. I don't suppose you managed to get a look at her? Might be easier to find if we knew what she looked like," Harlow drawled.

"Five foot six or seven; dark hair . . . Could be short, but I think it was pulled up in the back. It was too dark to tell. Caucasian, slender build. Robin might be able to give me more. I'll let you know. Right now, however, I'm here for all of this," Batman waved his arm around the room at the paper clutter and the dry erase board. "Crane has apparently developed a new toxin that has a delayed reaction and works off of a trigger. He plans to sell it to the highest bidder."

"A trigger? Like what, for instance? A word or an image; a sound, maybe?" Harlow didn't like the sound of that.

"Images are the only confirmed trigger . . . so far." Batman shifted slightly from one foot to another; a muscle in his jaw flexed.

Harlow frowned. Suddenly things clicked together in his mind like pieces of a puzzle. "Oh, damn . . .," he said. "He did that, didn't he? That goddamn sonovabitch gave Robin a trigger, didn't he? _That's_ why you're here! You're trying to find an antidote!"

Harlow could feel the intensity of Batman's focus rivet on him. Harlow had surprised him . . . Well, damn! What about that?

"You make connections very quickly," Batman remarked.

"Heh . . . A fat lot of good that does me though, if they aren't right." Harlow stared back. "But I'm right this time, aren't I?"

"Unfortunately."

Harlow watched him. He said that images were confirmed as triggers, which meant that he knew Robin had a trigger that was an image. But he hadn't considered that the triggers could be a sound, or a word, or hell, maybe something else entirely, and that bothered him . . . _A lot_. The man had stood there during their entire conversation without making a single move other than an arm wave to indicate the research that Cantor was working on. Suddenly, he is shifting and clenching his jaw. On another man, that would have been like a flinch and a grimace. Why would the idea of another way for a trigger to be . . . Well, hell, what would you call it: _pulling_ a trigger? _Activating_ a trigger? . . . Why would another way of activating a trigger bother him so much unless . . . Oh, _damn it_! _Goddamn it_!

"Robin's got more than one trigger," Harlow snarled. "Holy . . . Ah, damn it to hell! So, what are you going to do?"

He had definitely earned the Batman's attention now.

"How did you manage to infer all of that from what I said?" Cowl or no cowl; lenses or not, Batman was flat out staring at him.

Harlow shrugged. "It would take all night to explain it to you. Call it a gift, or a curse, but I've been able to do it all my life. I'm just good at reading people and making those connections you mentioned." He scrubbed a hand over his head and the back of his neck. "My ex-wife hated it. So much so she left Sam behind when she left me. The little rugrat seems to have inherited it as well."

Batman tilted his head as he if he were studying a particularly interesting bug under a microscope.

Harlow snorted. "Like you couldn't learn any of this in an hour," he laughed. "You're the Batman, for God's sake! I figure if anyone can keep something to himself, it would be you. I mean, if you can't trust Batman, then hell, who can you trust? Right?"

Batman head straightened and his shoulders inched back just a smidge.

Harlow grinned. "That would be because you trusted me first."

Batman stood stock still; not moving a muscle. He even held his breath.

"No, I'm not reading your mind," Harlow laughed. "I know, it really is uncanny."

"Detective, you have no idea . . ."

"Well, I have some idea," he remarked. "After all, I've been surprising and shocking and astonishing people all my life."

Harlow rocked back on his heels. "Well, I figure that those papers you took probably will do more good in your hands than they would stuck in a box back in evidence. I don't doubt that you will share the antidote with everyone once you've developed it. There's too much here for anyone to actually notice if three or four . . ." he glanced at the vigilante. "Five? . . . If five papers just up and disappeared."

Harlow couldn't tell from where he stood and with that full mask and all, but if he were a betting man, he'd lay odds that Batman just flared his nostrils at that little tidbit. Yup, he could go home and have a beer and call it a day . . . He had just shocked the hell out of the Bat himself.

"I'll double check evidence to see if there is anything that might help you out, but honestly, this was all there was. I doubt anyone bothered taking anything back. They probably thought it would be safer here. Hell of a lot more room for it."

"I doubt it would be safer here," Batman said. "It took me all of three seconds to jimmy the lock on the sliding glass door."

Harlow frowned at that. "You may have a point," he said. He walked to the closet, took down the two jackets that were in there, and draped them over the kitchen chair. He pulled down the closet's dowel, walked to the sliding door, and dropped it into place; effectively preventing the door from sliding more than a couple of inches before being blocked.

He smiled. Picking up the dowel again, he turned to the dark detective. "I'll just plop this into place after you leave. It's not Fort Knox, but an intruder would have to make a hell of a lot more noise breaking in, or at the very least, work for it a little harder."

Batman's mouth pursed. "I'd hate to know what you just inferred from that expression," he commented off-handed. As he moved to leave, he hesitated. Then, almost as if he wanted to do it before he could change his mind, he turned back to Harlow. His hand slid over his utility belt, and he held out one of his collapsing Batarangs. "For Sam. Tell him to be careful where he throws it, and warn him that it will return. Thank you, Detective."

"He'll be thrilled! Look, just figure this thing out, will you? Tell Robin that Sam and I will be looking forward to seeing the occasional news footage of him trouncing criminals real soon."

* * *

Batman watched from the roof of a neighboring building as Detective Harlow waved at the building's superintendent after returning Cantor's apartment key. He walked to his car and opened the door, but before he got in, he paused to look around him. He didn't think the detective could see him at that angle, but when Harlow waved in his direction, Batman couldn't help grinning. The man intrigued him.


	25. Promises

**Warning: Some Language**

* * *

"Alfred, I'm back. How is he?"

The butler started from where he had been lightly dozing in the chair next to Dick's bed. He stood and stretched before turning to greet his eldest charge.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't mean to fall asleep," he apologized.

"Nonsense," Bruce waved away the man's self-incrimination. "You haven't gotten much more sleep that either of us. How is he doing?"

Alfred sighed, his gaze falling on the sleeping child. "I wish I knew, sir, but his behavior has me puzzled."

Immediately, the incident from that morning entered Bruce's mind. "In what way," he asked.

"It would seem that he was determined to have some privacy. So much so that he went through some rather complex machinations in order to get me to leave the room," the elder man said. "I left him your radio with instructions to call me immediately should the least little upset arise, and went to prepare the pudding he had requested earlier. When I returned . . ."

" . . . He was talking to himself," Bruce finished for him. He began to look at his trip to the kitchen that morning from a totally new prospective.

"Indeed," the manservant declared. "You've overheard one of these conversations then yourself, I take it?"

"This morning," Bruce nodded. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added, "And maybe last night. Alfred, what do you think it means? Could this be something brought on by his head trauma?"

"I suppose, sir, but I am no expert. Perhaps, if this continues, we should mention it to Dr. Thompkins."

"Hm, yes, I think that might be a good idea." Bruce adjusted the angle of the lamp beside Dick's bed and set down a pile of papers on the bedside table. "I take it that every room has been set up?"

"Oh, yes sir, with the good doctor's help," Alfred nodded. "There isn't a room in the house that doesn't now boast an AED, a refrigerator with the necessary medications, and all the other supplies we might need should last night repeat itself."

Bruce ran a hand through the child's hair, pushing it back from his face. The stitches had been cleaned by Leslie the first night. While Crane's work was acceptable, he hadn't put the kind of effort into it that he might have if he had been expecting the boy to live longer than a few days. It would leave a scar, although it would be completely covered by Dick's thick, black hair. The swelling had gone down a bit more, he noted.

"That was easily one of the worst nights of my entire life," Bruce commented. "I truly dread having to repeat it, but unless I can find something in the papers from Cantor's apartment, I cannot think of how we will avoid it."

"We must remain positive, Master Bruce, for the boy's sake."

"I'm trying, my friend. But Dick's got two more triggers, and tonight I met up with that detective I told you about."

"Ah, yes sir. Detective Harlow, I remember you mentioning him," Alfred murmured.

"He mentioned something tonight that I hadn't even considered." Bruce turned worried eyes on the butler. "We've been assuming that all of the triggers are images. What if the other two are something else?"

Alfred blinked, his gaze darted to the form curled obliviously under the covers. "Something else? Good Lord, what else is there?"

"Sounds. Smells. Taste," Bruce ran a frustrated hand over the back of his neck. "Any of his senses, Alfred. I've been dragging him through Gotham with a blindfold, when it could be a sound that activates the next trigger! We sat in traffic for twenty minutes both to and from the hospital! If something would have set off his trigger then, he wouldn't be here now . . . He would be . . ." Bruce broke off. He couldn't even say it aloud. "We didn't think! We might have killed him taking him out like that! We can't afford another mistake like that, Alfred! He might not live through it!"

Alfred set his hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Stop," he said. "Master Bruce, you must stop this right now."

Distraught eyes met the elder man's steady gaze. "I'm trying to, Alfred. I'm doing all I can think of to stop this. Cantor was trying to tell me how when he was shot. The man died in my arms still trying to tell me how to fix this. We were so close to having the answers, and now we are grasping at straws. These papers," he gestured to the small pile he had brought up. "And everything I was able to copy from his apartment . . . They are our only hope to solve this."

"I meant for you to stop thinking always of the worst case scenario. And this isn't your only hope," Alfred reminded him. "There is still that awful woman out there; the second lab assistant, and we mustn't forget the Scarecrow himself."

"I have no idea where Crane is at the moment," Bruce muttered. "But I have the computer working on finding the woman. I'm assuming that she is a biochemist like Cantor. Of course, he was still a student, but no matter. I should have a list in an hour of all the Lydia biochemists and psychologists in Gotham. The list of students in either of those fields of study with the first name Lydia might take a little longer."

"Then you are doing all you can at the moment, sir. I would go so far as to suggest that you don't spend the entire night working," Alfred said. "Sleep does wonders for refreshing the mind."

"You sound like a broken record," Bruce grumbled.

"Indeed. Well, you know how to turn the phonograph off," Alfred turned to walk out the door. "Would you care for some refreshment before I retire?"

"Coffee wouldn't go amiss," Bruce said, as he picked up the papers and settled down into the chair.

"Decaffeinated?"

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Regular, please. Thank you, Alfred."

"Alas, one does what one can, sir." With that, the butler took his leave.

* * *

One of the papers he had taken from Cantor's apartment, Bruce had deciphered enough to know that the second step necessary to implant the subliminal images used a specially-designed visor that used strobe light effects to lull the victim into a trance. The image chosen is uploaded into the visor and flashed before the victim's eyes in between the light flashes at a rate so rapid that the victim's consciousness doesn't register it. The subconscious, however, does. And depending on the method of distribution, this process can take as little as five minutes to complete. This was pretty much what he had discovered in the notepad, but in greater detail.

God was in the details, Bruce found.

What he also discovered was that there was no process created for eliminating an implanted trigger. And why would Crane even bother . . . The entire process was designed to kill the target. Crane had no interest in saving said target, and neither would his buyers.

Cantor didn't say anything about a visor. Of course, Cantor really hadn't had time to say much of anything before Lydia had shot him. He glanced down at the paper and saw that Cantor had mentioned earphones, but ones that canceled out sound. Had there been others that produced a sound trigger?

Damn, why didn't he search the lab while he was there? Why didn't he look for an office that Crane might have been using that might have given him a clue about what he was looking for? He sighed. Because he had been anxious to get Robin out of there. Thinking back, he knew that unless Cantor had been able to tell him that these things were important, it wouldn't have occurred to him to search for the implements Crane had used to implant the triggers.

He lay that paper aside and began perusing one that was filled with complex chemistry formulations. He had recognizes a few of the symbols that had been written in the notebook, and hoped that this was a copy of the antitoxin Cantor had developed.

Dick's foot jerked beneath the covers, drawing Bruce's attention to the boy. He twitched again a few seconds later. Bruce set the papers aside and moved to the bed. Was Dick having a nightmare? The boy began to move restlessly beneath his blankets, and a moan issued forth.

"Noooo," he whined. "Stop! It hurts . . ."

Ah, damn . . . But he had been expecting this. Exhaustion had played a big part in keeping the nightmares at bay. After catching up on some much needed sleep, however, the bad dreams were now making their appearance. Bruce sat on the edge of the bed.

"Dick," he murmured softly. He still remembered the violent reaction he had gotten upon waking the child in the cage. He stroked the boy's arm gently to ease his way back to consciousness.

The child began gasping. "I can't breathe . . . Let me breathe, please!"

Bruce blinked. What the hell had Crane done to his child?

"Dick, son, I need you to wake up now," He spoke a little louder.

The boy's gasping halted abruptly. His body stiffened as he held his breath. Bruce had a panicked moment, wondering if he could activate his trigger in his sleep! If that were possible, then he should be grateful for the amnesia that kept images of Batman out of his head.

Unable to stand it, Bruce picked Dick up in one arm while the other patted his cheek. "Dick! Wake up! Breathe!"

Suddenly, the boy wheezed and jerked awake. His eyes were wide and panicked as he gulped air into his lungs. It took him a minute to realize where he was, and who held him. Upon recognizing Bruce, his face crumpled as the tears began to flow.

"Daddy," he cried, clinging to the horrified man.

Bruce pulled the boy up so that he could bury his face in his shoulder as Bruce rocked him. He spoke words meant to soothe the child, speaking directly into his ear in case the ringing persisted. Dick cried with deep, wrenching sobs that ripped Bruce's heart out of his chest. He knew he should attempt to remain composed so as to help Dick calm down, but this tiny glimpse into the terror his boy had experienced for three full days made it impossible. Bruce cried with him, silently.

"Is everything all right, sir?" Alfred stood in the doorway in his robe. "I heard . . ."

"Just a nightmare," Bruce told him, pausing only long enough to wipe the tears from his face. But it was a lie. This had been a memory; one truly horrible memory. And the need to wipe the earth of Crane's existence rose up once more. He pushed the impulse back down, not wanting to frighten Dick any more than he already was.

"Perhaps a bit of hot chocolate might help," the butler suggested.

"What do you say, Dick? Do you want a bit of Alfred's hot chocolate," Bruce asked, hoping to get his boy's mind off of those torturous memories and onto something pleasant.

Dick didn't even acknowledge his question. His body shook with the force of his weeping. Bruce knew that he would calm down eventually, though, so he nodded to Alfred. The hot chocolate might come in handy when that happened.

After Alfred left for the kitchen, Bruce continued to rock the boy; rubbing his hand in gentle circles on his back. Slowly, slowly, the child's sobs began to subside. When he had quieted enough to hear him, Bruce made Dick a promise.

"I'm going to fix this. Do you hear me, Dick," he said. "I'm going to fix it. I won't let anything like this ever happen to you again. I swear it!"

In his head, Bruce prayed that he wouldn't be made a liar. Remembering the difficult chemical formulas and the complexity of Crane's methods, Bruce decided that it was more important to keep this promise than it was to do this alone. Dick's life was far more important to him than his pride.

He was going to need help

* * *

**Oh, look! We're going to have guest stars . . . **


	26. Forever, If Necessary

The next morning Bruce left Dick in Alfred's able care as he went down to the Batcave. The computer had pulled up two Lydias; one a chemist, and one a psychologist. He pulled up their information from the Department of Motor Vehicles computer files. The disappointment was crushing when neither of the women's pictures matched the woman he had seen at the vet hospital. Alfred had been correct that the woman was their best lead for more information.

The list of Lydias among the students at Gotham Community College, Gotham's University of Science and Technology, and Hudson University was more impressive, but still not more than twelve in all. He didn't even bother narrowing down the list by field of study, just brought each of the yearbook photos up on the screen.

His fist slammed into the metal counter of his worktable, leaving a sizable dent. His frustrations were mounting. Dick was running out of time. He couldn't be expected to live out his life in a padded cell, which might end up being the safest place for him at the moment. He hadn't been home more than two days and already Bruce could see his need to move was beginning to get the better of him.

His strength was returning faster than Bruce could have hoped for, even with the setback caused by the activated trigger. Dick was already eating soft foods as of the previous evening, and holding it down; the nausea from his concussion now completely gone. Bruce was concerned by the boy's hesitancy to ask for painkillers. It was obvious he was still in a lot of pain, but it was only when he was offered the medical relief that he would take something. He wondered of that came from having to suffer in pain for the majority of his captivity or some faulty idea that he should be strong enough to take it.

Bruce thought about his own tendency to refuse medications while he was working on a case, and wondered if Dick were trying to emulate the Batman's stoicism in the face of injury or illness . . . But unless the medication made him too sleepy to work, jumbled his thoughts, or affected his balance or depth perception, Bruce would always take it without complaint. Sure he had the stamina to work through most pain and illness when he had to, but doing so reduced his effectiveness in the field, and so he didn't often refuse medications for pain or fever unless he had no choice.

Still, Dick was moving about on his bed without much trouble. And the boy hated that he continued to need help with even his most basic needs. He wanted to have the freedom to move about his room, at least. Of course, Bruce knew he wouldn't be satisfied with that even after a day's time. The only thing keeping him in place now was his weakness and joint pain.

The tinnitus continued to be a problem on occasion, but had been improving over the course of the time he had been home. His equilibrium was still an uncertainty as he hadn't much opportunity to exercise his balance without standing on his own. Bruce was hoping that by the time he could stand unassisted that the problem will have corrected itself.

Dick's headache, although he claimed had improved, was continuous. Very little seemed to help the constant throbbing without drugging him into a stupor. Physically, the worst, however, remained the bruising of his chest. The boy never seemed to be able to catch his breath. In fact, the only time he had managed a truly deep breath was after his nightmare, when the need for oxygen temporarily outstripped his pain.

Bruce planned to help Dick this morning with his memories by chatting with him about things they had done together in the past and the little he knew about the boy's parents and his days in the circus. Leslie had suggested asking him a few open-ended questions and seeing what came out of that. Until he could do something about Dick's triggers, however, he would avoid the subject of Batman and Robin as much as possible. The very idea that a dream might have the power to activate a trigger had terrified him.

In the meantime, Bruce thought he might give Harlow another call and see what became of any of the equipment the police might have confiscated from the veterinary hospital Crane had been using for a lab. The man had proven useful with his insightfulness, and Batman had been impressed by his freakish ability to gather information and make connections from even the slightest of clues.

Later, this afternoon, Batman would take a little trip. Although he would prefer to keep Dick safely ensconced in his room, he had a feeling that Robin's presence might be necessary to get the results he was looking for. Maybe he would go alone first, and then if he absolutely had to, he would bring Robin later.

* * *

Bruce expanded his search for a biochemist/psychologist named Lydia to several surrounding cities, even going so far as metropolis. He also decided to look into medical technicians and biologists, including employees of hospitals, medical laboratories, and research facilities as well as the faculty of every college, tech school, and university within a hundred mile radius.

Harlow had agreed to search for the items Batman had described to him, and would alert him to his progress via an untraceable number Batman had set up for the Commissioner Gordon when the Bat signal wasn't a viable option.

Once that was completed, Batman had called in his favors, requesting help in formulating and processing a possible antitoxin for Robin. Now, all he could do was wait . . . In the meantime, Bruce headed upstairs where a very antsy bird was likely driving Alfred batty.

* * *

"Can you tell me about your mother, Dick?"

Dick looked up from where he was stirring his applesauce. "But _why_ can I not have spaghetti?"

Alfred looked up from where he was setting down a glass filled with a sports drink. "Because, Master Dick, Dr. Thompkins was very specific in the order in which you are able to return to a regular diet. Spaghetti, at this juncture, is sure to induce some unwanted discomfort. I would think that you have enough of that right now to want to avoid incurring more . . . Particularly if the more was unnecessary and easy enough to prevent."

Bruce cleared his throat. "Dick, pay attention. Can you describe what she looked like?"

"Who," the boy answered glumly.

Bruce sighed and leaned over to grasp Dick's chin lightly in his hand; turning the boy's face toward him. Bruce had to refrain from wincing when Dick flinched away from him and pushing at his hand.

"I'm sorry," he apologized; swallowing a growl at yet another testament to Crane's abuse. "Can you describe what your mother looked like?"

Dick face looked distinctly unhappy, and he turned away as he answered. "She had long hair," he recited, monotonously. "It was dark, though not black, like mine or . . . Sh-she had sawdust in it."

Bruce frowned. _What_ . . .?

"Her eyes . . . seemed bluer then," he whispered. "The . . . The . . . I can't remember the word for it. The dark middle was smaller, but not focused like it was supposed to be. She was looking at me, but . . . but not."

Bruce blinked. _Was he_ . . . _Was he describing_ . . .?

"She was pale; paler than usual. She had lighter skin than . . . me and . . . And it was splattered with spots of red."

"_Dick_!" Bruce jumped up and sat on the bed, grabbing Dick by the shoulders, startling the boy. He blinked up at him like coming out of trance or waking up from a dream.

"What?" His eyes were damp, but he looked confused, as if he wasn't consciously aware of what he was saying.

Dick had refused to speak of his father at all. And now he described his mother as she had been at the time of her death! The memories were all there, but he was repressing them. But when asked the most simplest of questions about them, he either refused to speak at all or spoke of their death. Bruce was no psychologist, but it worried him.

He decided to change tactics.

"Do you remember the day you came to live here," he asked. "At the manor?"

The boy was silent for several long moments, and Bruce thought he might need to repeat the question when Dick finally answered.

"It was so big," he said, quietly. "The stone looked forbidding, but the sun was shining and the sky was blue, so that helped. The . . . The room inside seemed cold."

"The foyer," Bruce supplied.

Dick nodded. "The . . . foyer." He repeated carefully, like he was tucking the word into a safe place where he could retrieve it later. "But it had that big, pretty . . . light; with crystals dangling."

"Chandelier," Bruce told him.

This time Dick met his gaze; a slight smile lifting his lips. "Chandelier," he said. "I really liked it. The chan . . . The chande . . ."

"Chandelier."

"Chandelier," he said, concentrating. "I really liked the . . . _chandelier_."

"What did you like about it?"

I liked the way the . . . _chandelier_ turned the sunlight into rainbows," he then grinned; the smile reaching his eyes for the first time in the past hour. "I wanted to swing on it," he admitted, laughing.

"You have," Bruce told him, chuckling at the memory of the first time he and Alfred had discovered their little acrobat hanging from it. He hadn't laughed at the time, but now . . . Time had dimmed the fear that the sight had startled out of him, leaving only amusement now, after the boy had dropped safely into his waiting arms.

It dawned on him then that that moment had been the first time Bruce had caught him when he fell . . . Of course, it had been a controlled fall, but he remembered the feel of snatching that little bundle of energy out of the air and clutching him to his chest for the first time. Dick had been here for all of three days when that happened. He wondered at the amount of self-control the boy had had to impose on himself to make it that long before giving in to temptation.

When Bruce refocused his attention back into the present, he saw Dick staring at him with a fair bit of awe.

"You caught me . . ." he whispered, some unnamed emotion glittering in his eyes.. "You caught me then, and you've been catching me ever since."

Bruce's expression softened and his smile gentled. He tousled the dark hair. "Yes, and I'll continue to catch you for as long as you need me to."

"Really?" Cerulean blue eyes searched gray-blue ones.

"Forever, if necessary," Bruce promised.

Abruptly, tears filled those amazingly, blue eyes, and the boy's breath hitched. He carefully moved into Bruce's lap and wrapped his too-thin arms around his neck. "I love you, too, Daddy," he whispered into his ear. "And I promise I won't forget again. I'll be strong for you."

Bruce's heart stuttered again like it did every time Dick insisted on calling him that. The happiness it inspired in him was tempered by that vague sense of guilt that kept him from truly enjoying the title the way he wanted, but he couldn't bring himself to complain about it.

* * *

"But _why_ can't I go with you?"

"I told you, chum," Bruce explained. "It's too dangerous. I can't risk exposing you to a trigger. There could be one where I am going . . ."

"But you said this is about curing me," Dick argued. "Shouldn't I be there, too?"

"You will be," Bruce assured him. "Eventually. But not tonight."

Dick was so frustrated he was ready to throw something. He grabbed up his pillow and pounded a fist into it. "It's not _fair_!"

"This isn't about fairness, and you know it," Bruce countered. "If it were, then you wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place."

"How long," he whined. "I'm so tired of just sitting here, doing nothing."

"Hopefully not much longer. I want you safe and well, also, but we need to be careful . . ." Bruce could see his words weren't having the kind of effect that he had hoped for.

Dick frowned. "Careful is just another word for forever," he yelled, and without thinking threw his pillow across the room.

He hadn't meant to throw it. He was just so frustrated and upset . . . He hadn't aimed at anything, but apparently the pillow had flown across the room and knocked the now empty glass off of the dresser. He didn't know for sure because he hadn't looked, too intent on his pout to do anything but stare out the window; anywhere but at Bruce. He didn't want to see the older man's disappointment in his childish behavior.

But it wasn't the image of a shattering glass that caused his reaction . . . No, it was the **_sound_**.

The tinkling, crackling, smashing sound lit up a secret area of his brain, and he just reacted; helpless to do otherwise.

He grabbed his ears and screamed . . .

* * *

**Oh No! **


	27. The Living and The Dead

**Warning: Language and Disturbing Images. This is a rough chapter . . .**

* * *

"_NO_! _DAMN IT_! Not again . . ."

Bruce leapt across the distance, catching Dick as the boy arched his back; nearly throwing himself off of the bed backward. He laid Dick on the floor beside the bed, his hands darting to his belt where he kept the radio when he was home.

"_ALFRED_," he yelled into it. "_I NEED YOU NOW_!"

The butler's voice answered immediately, sounding breathless but calm. "I'm on my way! Use the AED, sir! Now, before he has the chance to flatline!"

Bruce tore open the buttons on Dick's red pajama top, baring his chest. He pulled the machine down and opened it. He hadn't actually watched everything that Alfred had done the other night, but it was with an immense sense of relief that Bruce realized these machines were made idiot-proof. He yanked out the pads and placed them where the machine indicated. It was as the machine began reading the boy's heart rhythm that Bruce noticed the difference.

Dick's screams stopped as he began hyperventilating; his eyes wide with terror and pain. His hands were still covering his ears when Bruce noticed the blood. It glistened as it squeezed between his fingers and started to dribble across the back of his hands. Just as he reached for the child's hands, a line of blood poured from his nostrils.

"Oh, God . . ."

He choked. As he coughed blood splattered up from his mouth, spraying a horrified Bruce as he leaned over him. He gurgled.

"_ALFRED_," Bruce screamed as he quickly turned the child's head to the side.

The butler ran through the door as Dick began to convulse. The elder man skidded to a halt a mere foot away, shocked by what he saw. The convulsions were exasperated by Dick's gagging. Blood was puddling underneath of him. His body suddenly seized; going rigid. The AED suddenly indicated that Dick's heart had gone into arrhythmia by advising that a shock should be delivered.

"Follow the directions," Alfred yelled as he grabbed a handful of syringes and a couple of vials of epinephrine.

Bruce pushed the button that allowed the machine to send a shock coursing through his child's body. Already rigid, Dick barely jumped at the surge. The machine went back to assessing, and after a moment advised another shock. Alfred had dropped down on the other side of the boy, startled eyes meeting Bruce's above him.

"Dear Lord," he whispered. "Wh-what was different this time? Did he injure himself falling?"

"Clear," Bruce called, and then pushed the button to deliver a second shock to the child. At the end of the second shock, Dick collapsed.

"It was a _sound_, Alfred," Bruce told him. "The third fucking trigger is the sound of breaking glass! H-he just started bleeding! I don't know why, though." He looked at the elder man. "Why would he just start bleeding?"

"I . . . God help me, I don't know, Master Bruce." Alfred's hands shook despite all his training as he measured out the proper dosage of epinephrine. "I've never seen anything like this."

The machine instructed them to resume CPR. Bruce positioned himself and began the compressions. Tears coursed down his face as he fought for the life of his boy as Alfred sent the first three ml into the PICC line he had left taped to the child's arm just in case another trigger was activated.

"Please," Bruce begged. "Please, don't take him . . ."

* * *

Dick stood by and watched as the two men worked over his body. He could feel the light beckoning to him even without turning around. It was like a magnet and he was the metal being drawn inexorably toward it . . . against his will.

He remembered what the spirit had warned him about and remembered his promise. While the importance of keeping that promise seemed to fade with every passing second, Dick kept repeating it over and over to himself.

"I'll be strong for you," he said. "I promise, I'll be strong for you."

"Dick?"

The voice startled him. The spirit didn't speak!

He looked over his shoulder and saw his mother and father standing in the hallway just outside the door. They were smiling at him; holding their arms open for him. His eyes widened at the image.

_No, this isn't fair_, he thought, even as he turned in their direction. "_Mom_?"

A cold hand touched his shoulder, drawing his attention away from his parents. The spirit stood beside him looking sad. His gaze slid back toward the activity happening behind them. Dick glanced back at the men.

"Bruce," he called. "Dad?"

"Dick?" A man's voice called to him this time.

Dick looked back at his father. The anger he had felt with the man had disappeared, and all that was left was longing. If he went with them, he knew he wouldn't have to worry about someone catching him. He wouldn't fall ever again.

"Dad."

The spirit was staring at him; shaking his head. He pointed to Dick's parents and shook his head again. Then he pointed to Bruce . . .

What was he trying to tell him? What was it again that Dick needed to remember? It was all slipping away; like trying to catch a cloud with his hands.

The spirit looked so sad. He laid both hands over his heart, and then held out his fists together and mimed breaking. He pointed to Bruce. Dick looked at the man who was working so hard to save him. He was crying. Why was he crying?

The spirit repeated his message. A broken heart, he was saying without words. Dick suddenly understood. The dead didn't need anything. They were dead. But the living . . . The living still needed him. Bruce needed him . . .

The spirit mimed a broken heart again, this time pointing at Dick. No! Not a broken heart this time, but a broken promise!

He promised he would remember; that he would be strong; that he wouldn't _leave_ him! If he left him, Bruce would die of a broken heart. He would give up and Scarecrow would kill him for it. Bruce was alone! But Dick's parents had each other. Bruce was alive! He needed Dick still . . . The boy's parents were dead, though.

And the dead no longer needed anything. They had time enough, he thought. They would wait.

The spirit seemed to know his decision even as he made it. He smiled.

Dick looked back at the forms of his parents behind him. They still stood with their arms out . . .

"I'm sorry," he told them. "He _needs_ me. And . . . And I need him, too. Do you understand? Can you forgive me?"

His mother smiled first. Her arms lowered, and she raised one hand. "Dick," was all she said. His father didn't actually smile, but nodded. He tucked one arm around his wife's waist and raised his other to his son.

Dick wanted to run to them; to hug them one more time, but seemed to realize the danger of that. He raised his hand to wave to them instead.

A cold hand caught his attention, and the spirit pointed to his wrist and back to where Dick's living body was struggling to retain its hold onto its own spirit. Right. He had only a limited time to make this decision before it was taken from him. When he glanced back to the doorway, his parents were gone. Only the light remained.

Dick had to claw his way the last few feet that separated him from his destiny. It was so difficult that for a moment he nearly gave up, but for his promise he would have. His hand passed through his own shoulder. _Ba-Deep_!

* * *

Bruce hung his head; one hand barely held him upright, the other covered his eyes. A grief was welling up inside of him so great he knew it would engulf him and he would never find his way out of it. He suddenly felt so tired that he didn't even want to try. His boy was gone!

Everything that had seemed so important just days ago; hours ago no longer held any meaning. What good was it to save a hundred strangers when he couldn't even save the one little boy that had held his heart? He couldn't do this again . . . This loss was just too much!

He felt more than heard Alfred weeping across from him, but he couldn't make himself care. He had _failed_ . . . He had promised to catch him, and he had failed him.

_Ba-Deep_!

Bruce blinked; tears dropped, splashing on the back of his hand.

_Ba-Deep_!

Alfred gasped. "We have a pulse!"

_Ba-Deep_!

Bruce stared, disbelieving.

Dick gasped, and immediately choked, coughing up blood that had pooled in the back of his throat. Bruce rushed to pull him onto his side. He cringed at the sound of retching and coughing that made his own chest hurt in sympathy, but soon, the boy's breathing leveled out after he finally managed to expel the last of the blood.

The trickle coming out of his ears and nose had slowed, but had yet to stop completely. Alfred climbed shakily to his feet, and in a couple of minutes returned with a handful of towels out of Dick's bathroom. He handed the washcloth to Bruce, and began sopping up the blood out of the carpet as the master washed the child's face carefully, as if he were afraid that if he was accidentally too rough, the boy would once more succumb to death's dark grip.

After Dick was reasonably cleaned up, Bruce gently gathered him into his arms to lay him back into his bed while Alfred went to call Leslie. The blood was a new thing; a frightening one at that! Bruce was terrified that Dick had suffered a stroke of some kind. Alfred warned him to not make snap judgments, but wait for the doctor to arrive.

Just as Bruce settled the boy back in his bed, Dick opened his eyes. He smiled weakly at his guardian. He whispered something, but his voice was so small that Bruce had to lean down to hear his breathless comment.

"I kept my promise . . ."

* * *

**I'll admit this one took on a life (no pun intended) all of its own. I'm almost afraid to ask for reactions, but let's hear them anyway. **

**The symptoms you read about here do not usually happen with a heart attack (or a stroke, that I know of). This is something unique to Crane's toxin, and to this particular trigger. I didn't think it was fair that his parents could talk, but the spirit couldn't, even if all they were capable of speaking was Dick's name, but like I said earlier . . . I wasn't the one doing the writing; it was only my fingers doing the typing. I decided to let it stand as is. **


	28. Eat, Sleep, Breathe

**Inexplicable happenings . . . **

* * *

"I've never seen anything like this, Bruce," Leslie said as she left Dick's room and stepped into the hallway.

"I think we can all agree with that, but what is it exactly?" Bruce was pacing the hall; the tension in him palpable. "I'm telling you, I was here when it happened. The sound of shattering glass caused this. True he fell over, but I caught him. He didn't hit his head."

Leslie sighed, waving his explanation away. "I believe you about not hitting his head. I cannot find anything that is indicative of another serious brain injury. I doubt this was caused by the first one; not after seven days. It doesn't make sense, however. That profuse of bleeding simply is unheard of for the only injury that I can find, at least in this preliminary check up. I'll need him back at the hospital, Bruce. I want a full work up on him, including a detailed MRI."

"What injury did you discover, Dr. Thompkins," Alfred asked.

"Perforated eardrums," she said. "Both of them. This may have been contributing to the hearing loss he had already been experiencing before, as I have found signs of a previous, more recent injury that had apparently been in the process of healing. You say you believe that Crane might have exposed Dick to all four of his triggers before you found him? That would explain this earlier injury.

"But now this on top of whatever hearing problems he was dealing with before . . . He will definitely be experiencing a good amount of hearing loss over the course of the next few weeks. As they heal, most, if not all of that will go away. I still haven't determined the amount of hearing loss he might have been experiencing as a result of his head injury. His hearing test had been scheduled for late next week. That will need to be pushed back now."

"Is it even possible for the perforation of the eardrums to cause the kind of bleeding we described to you? The boy was bleeding from his nose and mouth as well," Alfred shook his head.

"That's what I'm talking about, Alfred. The kind of bleeding you are talking about usually indicates a very serious brain trauma; one in which I would be able to see other indications that, in Dick, just aren't there. I'm wondering if there was injury to his middle ear canal. Blood supply to the ear comes from the external carotid artery. Perhaps, somehow . . .," Leslie shook her head. "I just don't know. I was thinking that maybe the blood traveled up through the Eustachian tubes and into his sinus cavities. That might explain the blood was coming from his nose and mouth."

Bruce stopped pacing, but even now, a couple of hours after this last emergency his hands trembled. "Does he need to be admitted because I'll be honest with you, I'm terrified. This last trigger was different from the other one. I haven't witnessed the one brought on by Batman's cowl because I had Alfred hide all of them, and we've kept Dick away from television and newspapers just to be safe. I'm wondering if each trigger doesn't come with its own unique signature."

"We know that two of the four triggers precipitate a heart attack, however," Alfred noted. "I would hazard a guess that particular reaction is the underlying feature of all four."

"That makes sense, Alfred. We will want to see a cardiologist as soon as this is over, to determine if the stress being placed on his heart is causing permanent damage." Leslie shrugged. "As for admitting him to the hospital, I honestly don't think that is necessary. The manor is set up with practically every piece of life-saving equipment that a hospital can afford. You have at least six crash carts in the manor alone dedicated to Dick's sole care. The only thing the hospital might gain you is personnel, but Alfred is already as talented a field medic with as much experience in minor trauma surgery as any emergency room nurse, and I'd probably trust him more than I would many doctors. Plus, there is the fact that you both are experienced dealing with Dick's triggers, and know what to expect when one is activated.

"No, Bruce," she said. "I cannot think of a single benefit to admitting him to a hospital, but I can think of several reasons why you should not. Dick is safer here with you. At least here, you can easily avoid three of his triggers."

"I had planned to take Robin to the watchtower with me, eventually," Bruce said as he leaned back against the wall. "I need help with this antitoxin. It is far more complex than anything Scarecrow has previously concocted, and they have the means to synthesize it quickly. It would be easier if Robin was present for this, but the fact that both my cowl and Superman's symbol were both triggers makes me hesitate."

"It seems unlikely that Crane would waste his last trigger on a symbol of a hero that Robin has never been known to have met, let alone worked with," Leslie told him. "You both have been known to work with Superman on numerous occasions, plus the fact that Superman's symbol is so well known. The boy could easily be exposed to it without ever stepping foot in Metropolis. I doubt he will have any trouble meeting up with the other heroes so long as you warn Superman to stay away or at least cover up his symbol."

Bruce scrubbed his face with both hands; his exhaustion evident. "I'd already checked. Superman is still off-world on a mission. He's not expected to return for another few days."

"You should be safe enough then to take the boy," she said. "Except, what will you do about your cowl?"

Alfred cleared his throat. "Actually, I have taken the liberty of designing a new domino mask for Batman's use."

Bruce glanced up at the man. "When did you do this?"

"I started working on it the day you brought the young master home and was told that it wasn't safe for him to see the cowl." Alfred allowed himself a small smirk. "No worries, sir. I believe it should be suitably grim and quite intimidating for your purposes, but far enough removed from the familiar as to not cause the boy any problems."

"Good," he said. "That's good. One less thing to worry about."

"I would think that the medical bay on the Watchtower should be suitably equipped to take care of any unforeseeable issues," Leslie opined.

"Yes, it is," Bruce confirmed. "Although it might behoove us to get some plastic lab equipment to replace as much of the glass as possible. It wouldn't do for everything as some of the chemicals can be volatile, but it would reduce the risk of something accidentally shattering within the boy's hearing."

"Like I said earlier, Dick's hearing is rather limited at the moment. The ringing is back apparently with a vengeance. That should afford him some protection," the doctor reminded them. "Is the lab attached to the medical bay?"

"No, actually it is across the hall," he admitted. He would still order the plastic beakers and such, but if Dick's hearing is as limited as Leslie was suggesting, he should be safe enough. After this last scare, Bruce was desperate to discover this antitoxin as soon as possible.

"I could wrap his eyes like before, sir," Alfred suggested. "If it were safe enough to remove the wrappings in the medical bay, he could also wear his mask beneath them."

"Yes, he doesn't like being blindfolded, and I can't say that I blame him," Bruce nodded. "The sooner we get this started, the sooner Dick will be cured. Leslie, how soon is it safe to move him?"

"Incredibly enough, his heartbeat seems strong, and the rhythm is regular," she said. "That boy of yours is amazingly resilient, Bruce. He is weak, and with the damage done to his ears he will be dizzy and probably a bit nauseous for a while. He will need to stay hydrated, so if he has trouble keeping things down, you will need to start him on a saline drip. You can try to see if he can continue to keep food down, but I would prefer him not to have to deal with vomiting on top of everything. So, see what he can manage first with bland, soft food in small portions. Otherwise, it's back to clear liquids for a couple of days."

"As for moving him," she shrugged. "While I would prefer him on strict bed rest for a week, I know he doesn't have that kind of time, especially with an unknown trigger still haunting him. I think he can handle the trip without undue problems. Keep in mind that I'll be scheduling him for that MRI tomorrow afternoon. You might try to prepare him for it. The noise shouldn't be an issue this time, but he'll need to remain blindfolded and still for ninety minutes."

"Fine," Bruce pushed off the wall. "Leslie, would you mind staying with Alfred and keeping Dick company while I contact the Watchtower. It shouldn't take me more than fifteen minutes at most to make the arrangements. The ones I need to see are probably already there. I asked them to meet me almost an hour ago."

"Of course," she told him. "And Bruce?"

He stopped halfway down the hall, looking over her shoulder.

"Try to eat, get some sleep, and remember to breathe."

"Tall orders to fill right now, Leslie," he said. "But I'll do my best to keep that in mind."

* * *

**Some actual medical facts mixed in with a bit of medical fiction . . . In reality, Dick would likely be dealing with serious heart problems and a stroke leading to coma or serious mental handicaps would be in the picture. Thankfully, this will not be the case here. Dick is a tough little kid whose love of Bruce keeps him hanging on, and because this is a universe where the impossible is possible, the child will not succumb to the inevitable or even the likely. I'm actually a nice person in the real world. ;D  
**

**Now, on to the Watchtower! Who will be waiting? I've gotten some great guesses. Let's see who's right? **

**Always anxious to hear from my readers! A BIG thanks to all of you who are faithful to give me regular reviews! It keeps me jazzed up and wanting to write more for you! **


	29. Watchtower

Batman stood in front of the Batcave's zeta-tube. He wore a new domino mask instead of his cowl. This one extended up from between his eyebrows to his hairline and from the bridge of his nose down either side of his jawline. It covered as much or more of his face than his cowl did, but left his hair, neck, and ears exposed. Alfred had been correct, however, in saying that the mask was rather intimidating. It looked something like a stylized bat plastered over his face . . . An _angry_, stylized bat! His usual white lenses completed the look.

Wrapped in a black blanket and carried in his arms was a very weak, exhausted, and nearly deaf Robin. The boy wore his pajamas and slippers, but his Robin's mask was on his face to protect his identity from those Justice Leaguers that might be present that weren't in on Batman and Robin's secret identities. With his amnesia, Batman had expected questions about the zeta-tube, but Robin didn't even bother to raise his head from where it was nestled in the crook of Batman's arm.

Alfred stood nearby with a portfolio containing Cantor's notebook, those 5 precious pages, and copies of dozens of pictures he had taken in the dead man's apartment with everything Bruce thought might pertain to a cure. In his utility belt Batman carried the USB drive of Cantor's files from his laptop. What he hadn't hoped to bring with him was the visor and two sets of earphones the police had confiscated from the veterinary hospital that Crane had been using as his base, but once again, Detective Harlow had come through for him.

So, now he was prepared to head to the Watchtower with Robin in tow, albeit several hours late. Both heroes that Batman had requested to come had remained aboard waiting to discover the problem that _The Batman_ had _needed_ _their_ help on. Alfred handed him the portfolio, hanging it on his fingers of the hand that held Robin's legs. Bruce stood for several long minutes staring at the tube entrance, not moving despite his desperation.

"Was there something else, Master Batman," asked Alfred.

Although the lenses were in place on Robin's mask, Batman could tell at a glance the boy had slipped into sleep. Certain he wouldn't overhear him even should he wake up thanks to the ringing in his ears, Batman spoke. His head and body remained facing the zeta-tube, but his voice carried easily enough.

"I'm terrified," he admitted.

Alfred nodded. "I share the emotion, sir."

"I keep thinking what if . . . What if another hero's emblem is the fourth trigger, and then I see Dick as he was last night when we were sure we had lost him. And what if this time he doesn't come back to me . . . um, I mean to us."

"Sir, you know how dangerous it is to play the 'What If' game."

"Alfred, I never expected to . . . I-I didn't think he would . . . that he could." Batman fumbled for words. "Alfred, how the hell did this happen? How did he come to mean so much . . . to me?"

"As much as the Batman has consumed you over the years, and how much of your life has been dedicated to the darkness . . . It is not your natural state. Even you . . . Especially you, sir, crave the light." Alfred stated quietly.

Batman sighed, looking down at the sleeping child. "Yes," he agreed. "He is that, isn't he?"

"Almost blindingly."

"This has got to work, Alfred," Batman told him. "If he . . . If he . . . dies. I'm afraid that everything I am, everything good in me will die with him."

"Well then, in that case, I would suggest that you get going," the elder man told him.

Alfred cued in Batman's code and one that had been newly added. He tugged the blindfold gently over Robin's mask, and then, as an extra precaution, tugged the blanket over his face as well. As Batman stepped forward, he heard Alfred parting words over the whine of the machine.

"You'll fix this, sir. I have faith in you."

* * *

"Batman. 02," the computer chimed. "Robin. B-01"

"What the . . ." Hal Jordan glanced up, startled. "Since when have we started bringing the family up for visits?"

Batman unconsciously tightened his grip, snuggling Robin closer to his chest. "Lantern," he said, acknowledging the other hero, even as he stepped around him.

"Nice mask. The cowl's at the cleaners?" Jordan snarked, only to be ignored as he watched Batman's retreating back. "So, what's up? Couldn't find a babysitter or something?"

"Or something," came the familiar growl.

Jordan just seemed to notice how protectively the bundle in the Bat's very full hands was being carried. From all he had heard about the boy that the Bat had taken under his wing, he couldn't imagine the ball of energy would ever agree to arrive for his first visit to the Watchtower wrapped up like a mummy without some sort of protest.

"What's with the kid," he asked, a bit concerned; following along behind the two. He hadn't met the boy before, but he knew instinctively that this wasn't a normal circumstance. "Is he okay?"

"He will be." Batman kept walking without a glance at the other man. "Where's Flash and Martian Manhunter?"

"They've been holed up in the lab, why?"

"No reason," Batman returned brusquely. "Tell them to meet me in the medical bay."

Jordan blinked, and then caught up to the dark detective to glance down at the blanket-wrapped figure. "He's sick?"

Sympathy rose up, and unthinkingly, Jordan reached for the edge of the blanket. Batman spun away from him, and glared at Green Lantern suddenly from several feet away.

"Don't . . . touch him," he growled, low and threateningly.

Surprised, and yet not, Jordan held up his hands in surrender. "Easy, Bats! I wasn't going to hurt him. Just thought I'd say hi and wish him well, that's all."

"You don't want to hurt him, and yet, in your ignorance, you just might," Batman sighed. "I'll be in the medical bay. Send in Flash and Martian Manhunter. No visitors."

Hal frowned as he watched as Batman practically jogged to the medical bay, obviously intent on reaching the relative safety of the bay without further interruptions. He ran a hand over his mouth, narrowing his eyes on the retreating figure. Unexpected sympathy rose up for the normally annoying Caped Crusader. The poor kid must really be sick for Batman to go all protective father on him.

_Huh_? _Who'd have thunk it_, he mused, as he flew to the lab. "I didn't know he had it in him."

* * *

"Batman! We're here," Flash entered the medical bay mere seconds after Batman. Martian Manhunter followed a minute later. "What's the big emergency? What took you so long?"

Batman was standing near the bed in the farthest corner of the room. He supposed that it wouldn't matter where he laid Robin. It only took a sound or a flash of an image to activate a trigger. He glanced around the bay again, searching not for the most protective spot this time, but the one best situated in case his heart gave out again. Batman moved over to the bed nearest the bay's crash cart.

"I was unavoidably detained," he muttered.

Flash zipped over, looking at the small human shaped bundle. "Who's this," he asked, even as his mind supplied the most obvious answer. He reached to take the portfolio out of Batman's hand so he could lay his more precious cargo down.

"It is Robin," Martian Manhunter answered, as he moved over to the bed. "He is . . . Not well."

Batman hovered over the bed. The room smelled antiseptic, as it should, but it was not the comforting scent of home. Dick had regained consciousness during Leslie's exam, but had flitted in and out of sleep since then. Batman was unsure if Robin would awaken in a panic or not in a strange location. He didn't know how strong the boy was, or if he could handle a scare so close to this last time. He didn't know if Flash or the Manhunter would be triggers or not.

Martian Manhunter looked at the dark detective, almost accusatory. "You are frightened."

"It's been a . . . A bad week," he muttered, not even bothering to deny it.

"Why do I get the feeling that that is a giant understatement?" Flash said, setting the case down next to the bed. "Why don't you lie him down?"

"He . . . He might panic," Batman explained. "The Scarecrow held him captive for several days. He . . . experimented on him."

"Oh no," Flash breathed.

"Scarecrow has repeatedly given him a new drug he's developed, and placed subliminal triggers within his mind that cause him to go into cardiac arrest, along with other disturbing effects. I worry that he's not strong enough to handle another scare so soon after . . ." Batman trailed off.

"He's already had an attack?" Flash looked horrified.

"That is why you were late," the Martian nodded, understanding.

"Wait! You mean he just had one . . . Like a couple of hours ago?" Flash gaped. "And you brought him here anyway?"

"I had no choice," Batman growled. "This last attack wasn't like the first one. It was so much worse. I thought . . . I thought I had lost . . . him," he finished feebly.

"Why's he bundled up like that? Is he sick on top of everything?" Flash asked.

"So far the images planted have been emblems. My cowl . . . Superman's 'S' symbol. I didn't want to chance another trigger."

"The cowl?" Flash whistled. "Man, that's so wrong! So, that explains the . . . Uh," he waggled a finger in front of his face.

"Yes," Batman answered. "I was hoping since most everyone already knows that Barry Allen is the Flash, and Martian Manhunter can change his appearance . . . Just in case. Do you understand?"

"Oh . . . _Oh_! Sure, right! Just a sec," Flash rushed out of the room, and was back before the wind of his departure had stopped rustling Batman's hair.

Martian Manhunter's appearance morphed into that of his earthly alter-ego, John Jones. "Let us see the boy settled, then."

Batman nodded. He slowly lowered the boy onto the bed. Sure enough, as soon as Batman began to slip his arms from under him, Robin gasped and stiffened. His moan was muffled, and he began to struggle against the blanket. Batman immediately sat down on the edge of the bed, tugged the top of the blanket from his face, and gathered the boy in his arms.

"Sh, hush," he spoke directly into the boy's ear. "You're safe. Nobody's going to hurt you here."

Barry looked surprised at the blindfold. "You had his head covered. Why the blindfold? Don't you think that's a bit overkill?"

"Considering that Green Lantern nearly succeeded in uncovering his head between the zeta-tubes and here; no, I don't." he told them.

J'onn tilted his head. "Is Green Lantern's emblem one of Robin's triggers then?"

"We don't know. It seems unlikely, but it is too soon for another attack. I didn't want to risk it."

"Wait! Just how many triggers does the boy have," Barry asked.

"Four," he said. "At least, four. According to my source, that should be it. But not all of them are known."

J'onn nodded. "You mentioned two; your cowl and Superman's symbol. Do you know more or are the other two triggers unknown?"

"Shattering glass . . ." Batman shuddered visibly. "The _sound_ of shattering glass, specifically."

Barry's eyes widened. "A _sound_ is one of the triggers?"

Batman nodded. "The last trigger is a complete unknown."

"What would you have us do, my friend," J'onn asked. "How might we help you?"

Robin had calmed somewhat. He slowly sat back from where he had been clinging to his mentor, but Barry noticed that he kept a hold of Batman's cape in what looked like a death grip. He was turning his head this way and that, as if he knew that he and J'onn were in the room, but couldn't quite tell. His eyebrows rose as he realized that the boy's hearing was damaged. Batman hadn't mentioned this yet, but it was becoming clear that this was the case.

"I have brought everything I could find of Scarecrow's experiment and a partial formula of a possible antidote to the toxin. The antitoxin formula was developed by one of Crane's lab assistants who alerted me to Robin's whereabouts. He gave me a notebook that apparently contained the completed formula, but," Batman glanced down at the boy. He still didn't know that Cantor had been killed."He was shot and the notebook damaged. Half of the formula is missing or illegible. What I've seen is complex and while I might be able to figure it out alone, it would take me months. Robin doesn't have that kind of time. He's been home for about three days and has already had two triggers activated. He . . . He almost didn't make it this last time."

Barry picked up the portfolio and opened it. As he was looking at one of the pictures of several chemical formulations, Batman pulled what looked like a 3D visor and a couple of pairs of earphones from a clip on the back of his utility belt.

"I believe these were used to implant the triggers," he said, handing them to J'onn. His hand slipped inside of another pouch, pulling out a couple of bottles filled with a clear liquid. "These, I believe, are samples of the toxin in its injectable form. This contains everything I could find in the assistant's laptop." He tugged free the USB.

Barry and J'onn each took one of the samples and J'onn, the USB.

"We will begin immediately," J'onn told him. "You are exhausted as well. Why do you not take rest here with Robin? Someone will need to stay with him in case someone walks in. We will wake you if we have questions or have something to offer."

"I need to help . . ." Batman began, easing off of the bed. Robin made a noise of protest, still hanging onto his cape.

"He needs you here with him more," Barry told him. "It's okay, Bruce. You have people working on the problem now. Take a break. You will be of more help after you have rested up a bit."

"Batman?" A child's voice broke through, speaking much too loudly, and sealing Barry's opinion that the boy's hearing had suffered recently.

Batman looked down at the boy. Even with the blindfold, his fear was evident. It didn't take another prompt. Instead of pulling up a chair or sitting on the neighboring bed, he picked the boy up, lay down on his bed, and tucked the child beneath his arm. Robin rested his head on Batman's bicep; threw a leg and an arm over his guardian's body armor and sighed with relief. In seconds, he was once more asleep.

He cuddled the boy closer as his mind went once more over the events of the evening. Despite his terror and disturbing thoughts, Batman dozed off ten minutes after Barry and J'onn left the medical bay. Even in repose, his hold on the boy remained firm.

* * *

**Now maybe they'll get somewhere . . . Reactions? **

**Oh, great job to everyone who guessed the identities of the pivotal guest stars. But then, you guys ROCK! I love hearing from you . . .**

**I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter up. I have just completed two consecutive double shifts at work with only a few hours of sleep between them. When I got home yesterday, I'm afraid that anything I typed would have reflected my sleep-deprived exhaustion and been nothing but gibberish. Hopefully, this one is up to par. I should have another up late tonight. I'll be back on schedule with at least one chapter a day or more.**


	30. A Good Start

"Wow! So, it's true. You've traded in the cowl for a mask," Black Canary leaned against the medical bay door.

After a few hours of sleep, Batman was sitting in a chair beside Robin. The boy was still sleeping. If this time was anything like last time, he would sleep hours, and wake up feeling restless. The boy still wore his blindfold, however, because of unexpected visits just like this one. Jordan had popped his head in earlier. Batman had moved from the bed to the chair after Green Lantern had woken him. Seriously, the man didn't seem to understand the concept of 'No Visitors'.

"Dinah," he greeted.

"So, is this the famed Robin?" Black Canary strode over to the bed and peeked at the boy still ensconced in a mound of blankets. She stopped, startled by what she saw.

"Why is he blindfolded," she hissed in a furious but low voice.

"You won't wake him," Batman told her. "His hearing has been damaged, at least temporarily. You can talk in a normal voice."

She frowned. "He can't hear at all?"

"He can if you talk directly into his ear. At the moment he is suffering from a rather severe case of tinnitus, exasperated by perforated eardrums."

"What happened? An explosion?" She pulled over a chair and sat across from him, Robin in between them.

Batman sighed. Word was going to get out. Of course it would. He brought Robin to the Watchtower for the first time, and the boy was obviously injured for it. Batman was missing his cowl . . . Everybody would be dropping in the meet the boy. He _knew_ this was a mistake!

"Scarecrow captured and experimented on him," he explained yet again. "Robin was injured initially, but the experiments and their results . . ." he broke off at the visions of a bleeding and convulsive Dick flashing across his vision. "He . . . Uh, it's . . . Um."

Black Canary did her best not to gape at the markedly shaken Batman. "Bruce, are you all right?"

"He nearly died, Dinah," he said, finally. "He still could. Flash and Jon are working now to come up with an antitoxin for him."

"Is it possible he can ride it out?" Canary knew that most of the Scarecrow's toxins eventually wear off, although many have either died or went mad in the process. But the little bird sleeping so peacefully between them looked reasonably comfortable at the moment. She wondered if Bruce had had him sedated.

Batman shook his head. "This is different. It enables the captor to implant subliminal images or sounds that then trigger a physical response. The victim isn't even aware of what the trigger is. He goes on to live his life until it is activated. No time limit apparently."

She tilted her head. "What happens when the trigger is activated?"

"Death," Batman said. "Usually from heart failure."

Her eyes darted back to the child buried under the covers. "And you confirmed this how?"

"Robin did himself," Batman told her. "He's had two attacks since his rescue, and I suspect that Crane also tested the activation of the triggers while Robin was still in his power."

"Wait! You said triggers! Like in plural?"

"Three that we know of; and one we don't."

Oh my God," Canary's hand covered her mouth in horror. "But he's just a little boy!"

"That didn't seem to dissuade Crane from experimenting on him," an angry growl issued forth.

"What are the three triggers you know?"

"My cowl, Superman's 'S' symbol, and the sound of shattering glass."

"Glass?" Canary asked. "I wonder why glass?"

"I'm not certain it mattered to him. Robin wasn't supposed to live," he said, bitterly.

The mask, while it seemed to cover more of his face, seemed to allow expressions to be seen more easily. Right now, Canary watched as Batman struggled to contain his anger and frustration. How did any of the League ever doubt the man's devotion for his young sidekick? If they could see him now, no one would ever doubt it again.

"So, the blindfold is to prevent a trigger from activating? But you aren't wearing your cowl, and Superman isn't due back for another several days," she noted. "He should be safe enough. The blindfold won't protect him from sound anyway."

"You're forgetting there is a fourth trigger that is an unknown quantity," he reminded her. "Dinah, he suffered an attack earlier this evening."

"What?"

"He's too weak to handle another one. I'd have left him home, but he is no safer there than he is here. And I can't leave him because more people are going to show up to meet him, and I can't risk that blindfold coming off," Batman explained.

Canary nodded. "If you want to go check on their progress, I'll stay with him," she offered. "I understand the danger now. I won't let any harm come to him."

Batman looked at the door. He desperately wanted to check on Barry and Jon's progress. He had slept for three hours. Surely something was accomplished in that time. Both men had a better understanding of chemistry than he did, and that was saying something.

He glanced back at Black Canary.

"Batman . . . Bruce, you will be right across the hall. Keep the doors open if it will make you feel better. I'll make sure that the blindfold stays on, and shoo anyone away who wants to come visiting . . . I promise."

Batman sighed. He did trust Black Canary; with his life, in the field. But this was Dick. He only actually trusted Alfred completely with the boy's care and safety. Of course, he _would_ be right across the hall.

"You will let me know immediately if he wakes or if . . . never mind. Just call me if he wakes up."

"You know I will," she promised. "Go. I've got this."

The man looked so torn as he stared at the child. He hesitated, his gaze drawn from the boy to her and back again. Finally, he stood up, ran a hand through the boy's dark hair, and then walked out the door.

Canary stared after him for a long moment before looking back at Robin. "Wow! That's some super power you got there, kid."

* * *

"Any progress?"

Barry and Jon turned from where they leaning over several of the papers he had brought with him. He could see multiple windows open on the computer screen near Barry's elbow. The clear glass board had a partial formula written on it, but it was far from finished.

As the two heroes turned to face him, he could see Cantor's notebook in Barry's hand. Memories of that night swamped him. Batman had been so intent on finding Robin he hadn't paid enough attention to his surroundings. If he had, he might have been able to save Cantor's life and the notebook would have been intact. Robin would never have had to suffer those last two attacks, and none of this would have been necessary. It was all his fault.

Hell, if he had done something differently that first night, perhaps Robin wouldn't have been captured to begin with. But he knew there was no way Robin had been ready to take on fifteen armed men. The only thing different he might have been able to do would have been to walk away that night . . . Even that would have been impossible for him. If he had just sent Robin back to the car . . . Then it would have been Batman captured or killed. If he had thought he could have handled it safely on his own, Robin wouldn't have left the cave. But then, he had never tried either. Maybe if he had, he would have found a way. He had been in tough spots before.

"Is the boy all right," Jon asked, pulling Batman out of his thoughts.

"What? Oh, yes," he answered. "Black Canary's with him. He's still sleeping."

"You looked . . ." Jon didn't finish.

"We have a good start," Barry stepped into the awkward silence. "We have at least a portion of the formula from the lab assistant's notes.. It is a place to begin. Jon was able to recover a small bit more with a cleaning solution to remove some of the blood. Unfortunately, it can also remove ink, so we lost the rest of it; what the bullet hadn't destroyed, that is."

"A small gain," Jon agreed, sensing the need to remain as positive as possible. "And we were comparing the formulas he has written on both the papers you recovered and on the USB drive. There are at least three that are identical to what we have here, but the last section of each formula go off in various directions. We feel certain that one of these three is the correct and complete antitoxin formula."

"It is just a matter of elimination now," Barry smiled at him. "This is much better than trying to figure the rest of the formula from scratch."

Batman nodded slowly. "How long before you discover the correct formula?"

Barry sighed. "Well, we are still working on breaking down the original toxin, but once that is accomplished, things should speed up significantly."

"And that will take how long?"

"The original toxin is extremely complicated," Jon told him.

"I know. That is why I brought it here and asked for your help," Batman snapped.

The two exchanged a glance, and Batman knew he was being ungrateful.

"I'm sorry. I . . . haven't been myself lately." As excuses went, it was pitifully short.

The two exchanged another glance; this one was one of surprise.

"What," Batman asked suspiciously.

Barry offered a tentative half smile. "Oh, it's nothing. It-it's just that we've never actually heard you apologize before."

Batman scowled. "Perhaps it is only now that an apology was necessary."

Barry coughed and turned back to the papers scattered on the counter. Jon looked up at the ceiling as he rejoined Flash in their discussion.

Batman blew out a breath. "Fine," he muttered to himself. He moved over to join them.

* * *

Black Canary adjusted Robin's blankets. The boy was sleeping like the dead. She grimaced even as the thought slid through her mind. Batman had poked his head back in after twenty minutes in the lab, but she had waved him away. She had nothing important to drag her away, and now that she understood the danger to the child, his safety quickly became her priority.

That was two hours ago. Hal had come by, but Canary had shooed him away. While Robin probably wouldn't have heard his boisterous voice, she wasn't certain that the boy wouldn't sense his presence. He became more restless after Batman had left the room, so that idea wasn't totally without merit. On a couple occasions, she had thought he might wake, but he settled down before she could move to get Batman.

Now, he was restless again. She leaned over him when he moaned in his sleep, frowning. Was he having a nightmare? She certainly couldn't blame him if that were the case. After several days in Scarecrow's dubious care, she would very likely be suffering from nightmares as well.

"Nooooo," the boy moaned, softly. "Let me out!"

Canary bit her lip. Definitely a nightmare, then. She glanced up at the door. Should she leave him to get Batman or stay and see if she could calm him first.

"Sh," she hummed to him. "You're safe now. You're all right."

His panting increased, however. "No, stop! Don't touch me! It huuuurrrts!"

"Oh, baby," she crooned sympathetically.

She rubbed his arm gently, but her touch didn't have the effect that she had hoped it would. Instead of calming him, Robin jerked into wakefulness. He appeared to know immediately he was in a different place, and jumped up into a crouch. His breathing was fast and erratic, and his body began shaking violently.

"Who's there," he demanded to know.

"Robin, my name's Black Canary. I'm friends with Batman . . ." She tried to explain to him.

"Who's there," he yelled.

Canary blinked, and then remembered that he couldn't hear. Oh, how frightened he must be now. She moved closer and raised her voice so that he could hear her.

"Robin, I am a friend . . ." she began as she placed a hand on his shoulder.

In a total panic now, Robin knocked her hand away, and spun away. But being unfamiliar with his location, he fell when he stepped off the bed. He scrambled back until he hit the wall. With nowhere else to go and facing a potential threat, Robin ripped the blindfold off of his head.

His eyes darted from the strange woman closing in on him to the crash cart and its various tubes, masks, and monitors. As she came within reach, he seemed to realize he wasn't shackled. He leaped, using her shoulders as a springboard as he flipped over her head. He came down on his feet, but his balance was totally off and Robin fell to his knees. Immediately jumping to his feet, he listed sideways and tumbled across a bed, falling to the floor on the other side.

He couldn't hear and now he couldn't run, Robin scrambled under the nearest bed, and rolled into a ball. He drew his knees up to his chest, and threw his arms over his head. His heart was pounding painfully in his chest. He saw her boots running over to his location. He was about to be _caught_, he thought. Caught and thrown back into the cage or worse, into that _chair_! He slammed his eyes shut, and screamed!

"_BA-A-ATMA-A-AN_!"

* * *

The computer had finished analyzing the Scarecrow's toxin and was currently printing out a list of chemical components that made it up when they heard the child's terrified scream.

_ROBIN_!

Horror consumed Batman as his heart dropped out of his chest. Not again! Dick couldn't take another time . . .

He was running before the thought could solidify.

* * *

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	31. Panic Attack

**Warning: Language . . . **

**Also, I flip POV a bit. Should be easy enough to follow as I put a break in between them.**

* * *

Batman tore through the door to the medical lab only to slam into Barry who had skidded to a halt in front of him. His eyes went over the man's shoulder only to discover an empty bed.

_What the hell_? _Where is he_? Batman's panic rose another notch as he turned to scan the room. His eyes suddenly finding what he assumed had caused the man to stop in front of him: Black Canary's bottom stuck up in the air as she bent to look under another bed.

"What happened? Who's screaming," Green Lantern burst in behind J'onn, hovering in a green glow. "What . . . Oookay," he ended as he caught sight of Canary.

Batman moved swiftly to the other side of the bed. Each of Dick's attacks had been a little different. He couldn't take the chance that this one wasn't equally as deadly. He bent to look under the bed, and rediscovered his heart when it shattered in his chest at the sight of Robin curled around himself in terror.

"What happened," he asked Canary even as he reached under to pull Robin toward him.

"He was having a nightmare," she explained. Was that her voice shaking? Robin's reaction must have gotten to her more than she thought. "I tried to calm him down, but when I touched him he woke up and panicked."

Robin flinched and tried to scoot further from Batman when his gloved hand touched his arm. He was sobbing in between his screams for Batman.

Batman's terror went down a couple of notches once he realized that this wasn't a reaction from an activated trigger, but regular panic from a frightened child waking up in a strange place after a nightmare. He still needed to calm the boy as quickly as possible. He didn't know after so many heart attacks already, that Robin's terror wouldn't spark another.

"Hey! Where is everyone? What's going on in here?" A new voice sparking a new arrival.

Batman growled. This was turning into a fiasco. Green Arrow . . . Just what the situation needed. Damn it!

"Robin had a nightmare, and it looks like it's turned into a full-blown panic attack," he heard J'onn explaining to the newcomer.

"Robin? You mean Batman's kid," came Green Arrow's incredulous voice. "What's _he_ doing up here? Couldn't find a babysitter?"

"That's just what I asked him," Green Lantern told him.

Batman finally grabbed the back of Robin's pajama top and slid the boy to him. He glared at Canary over the top of the bed.

"Where's the goddamn blindfold," he barked at her, furious.

Right now Robin's appeared to be clenching his eyes shut, but it won't last for long. Anyone in here could be a potential trigger for the boy.

"Everybody clear out," he yelled, without waiting for an answer. He pick the boy up; tossing his cape over top of the child to shield him.

"What the hell happened to your cowl," Green Arrow asked, ignoring the order and pushing away J'onn and Barry's attempts to make him leave. What was wrong with these people?

Batman climbed to his feet and spun in Arrow's direction, snarling. "I said, _GET_ _OUT, **NOW**_!"

Everybody froze at the promise of pain that was laced into those words. The glare was one reserved for hated criminals like the Joker, not for friends and teammates. Canary was the first to move, shoving at Green Lantern.

"You heard the man," she ordered. "Get out!"

"Dinah," Arrow gaped. "What the hell is going on?"

"I'll explain outside. Please, Ollie, now! Just go!" She promised.

Green Lantern, already moving, went a little faster now that he had the promise of answers. When Green Arrow still hesitated, J'onn lifted him bodily with his mind and transported him into the hall beyond. The door slid shut behind them.

Robin was shaking like a leaf, and Batman would swear later that he could feel the pounding of the boy's heart even through his Kevlar. But upon his furious roar, amazingly, the boy suddenly began to calm. Small arms crept up around his neck and legs encircled his waist.

"Batman," Robin whispered the question.

He must have heard him yelling, Batman thought. He turned his mouth to the boy's ear. "I'm here, Robin. You're okay. Nobody's going to hurt you."

* * *

Upon hearing and feeling the vibrations of Batman's angry yell, Robin finally felt safe. No one, he knew, could withstand the fury of the Bat, after all. And he knew that Batman was there for _him_, even without the reassuring words that followed in his ear.

Robin tried to lift his head from where it was tucked against Batman's neck, but a large, gloved hand pushed it gently back down. He didn't mind, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of Bruce in leather and Kevlar. He sniffled, and tried to control his breathing. His chest ached, and even his heart felt sore, pounding like it was.

Batman had sat down on the edge of the bed, and rocked him. Robin, his mind working again, allowed it while he struggled to regain control of his body. He wasn't a baby, he told himself, even as he snuggled closer. He just needed a minute more before he had to be strong again.

Dick felt the rumbling in Batman's chest against his ear and knew he was talking to him, but the world of sound consisted of that never-ending, high-pitched ringing. But the rumble had a cadence and a rhythm that was soothing. It even tickled a little. Robin's mouth quirked at the thought. He wondered what Batman would think of his words being ticklish . . .

His chest still hurt, but his heart was feeling better now. His breathing was still hard to catch simply because deep breaths were painful. His shaking had eased to a mild trembling. It was from the . . . What was the word? He knew it! He knew he did! . . . Adren . . . Adrena . . . line.

Adrenaline! Yes, that was it! He remembered! All on his own . . .

Robin lifted his head to share the good news; looking up into Batman's . . . face? He frowned. Something wasn't right.

* * *

"Batman?"

Batman looked down at the sound of his name. Robin was looking up at him uncertainly. He seemed confused, but at least he was calm finally. He took his own shuddering breath of relief.

"What's up, chum," he asked, speaking loudly enough that Robin could make out his words.

He could tell even without the lenses up that Robin was searching his face. "You . . . Um, well . . . Something seems . . . Off," he stammered, staring at him.

It took him a minute to remember that he was wearing the new mask that Alfred made him. He couldn't imagine how that slipped his mind since people had been remarking on it all evening.

"Off," he repeated, sounding mildly curious. "What is it that seems 'off' to you?"

"You're face . . . Batman's face," he said. "It doesn't seem right."

Suddenly, the idea that dreams might be able to activate a trigger reentered his mind, and teasing the boy into remembering more about Batman didn't sound like a good idea anymore. "It's a new mask," he explained, speaking close to his ear. "Because I wanted you to be able to look at me without worrying about triggering a response."

Robin stared, frowning. "Oh, okay. I'm not sure I like it though."

"It's temporary," Batman reminded him. "Until we get the antitoxin and cure you, I'd prefer you to not think too hard on it right now."

Robin squirmed a bit, moving off of Batman's lap to sit on the bed with him. The boy swayed a bit, he noticed, and wondered about his balance. It had been well enough to get him across the aisle and several beds up from where his had been. He'd have to ask Canary later.

"So, care to tell me what happened?"

* * *

Robin ducked his head. Batman wasn't worried about their location, so Robin figured they were probably safe enough. He glanced around the room again. He didn't recognize it, but then again, he didn't recognize a lot of things or people.

"I had a nightmare," he told him, embarrassed. "I knew someone was there with me, but it didn't feel like you."

Batman tilted his head. "You could tell I wasn't in the room with you just by 'feel' alone?"

Robin shrugged. He didn't know how to explain it. All he knew was that someone other than Batman had been in the room with him. "It didn't feel . . . safe." He tried. "It felt foreign. Different."

"And why did you take your blindfold off?"

"I was alone in a strange place with a potential enemy in front of me," he said. "I needed to see to escape."

"And if the person you were faced with was one of your triggers?"

"If I had been recaptured by Scarecrow, I would have rather died anyway," Robin muttered.

Batman grabbed his shoulders. "Don't speak like that! I will always come for you."

Robin ducked his head. When he glanced up, the spirit was standing in the far corner. He didn't look as firm as he had the last time he had seen him, and wondered at that for a second before he realized why the spirit was there . . . To remind him of his promise; to be strong and to not leave Bruce. So, no giving up, he thought, no matter how tough things get.

* * *

"So, where are we," Robin asked to change the subject.

"We are on the Watchtower," Batman told him.

"You mean we're in _SPACE_?" Robin's jaw dropped open.

Batman paused, looked behind him toward the door. Reassured that no one was about to come in, he turned back to Robin and grinned. "You bet!" he chuckled. "Orbiting the earth, actually. Do you want to see?"

"_YES_," he squealed, bouncing to his feet and nearly went sprawling.

Batman caught him and swung him back up into his arms. "Come on," he said. "I'll show you."

He carried the child over to a blank wall and pushed a button on a nearby control panel. A section of the wall slid away revealing a window. The earth lay below them in all her splendor, lazily spinning in her orbit around the sun.

Robin gasped, and Batman smiled; tilting his head to rest against that of the boy he was becoming more comfortable in thinking of as his son.

* * *

They were still standing there when the medical bay doors slid open to admit a hesitant Barry, J'onn, and Black Canary. Whether it was the shock or simply the desire not to spoil the moment, the three stood where they were silently, waiting until Batman was ready to acknowledge them. None of them ever considered for a moment that Batman didn't know that they were there, how many of them there were, or the identities of each of them . . . All without turning around. And why should they consider that?

He was, after all, Batman.

* * *

**Reactions? **

**Robin was sleeping too much . . . Time for my adorable fix. But waking up in a strange place with strange people and more scary medical equipment? Yeah, all the makings of a panic attack.**

**For the guest who wondered about Dick's reactions to future dentist visits . . . His reactions will be much the same as mine. (Yeah, I'm phobic! No joke! Even making an appointment over the phone will make me cry. And really - Haven't you looked at those dentist's chairs? And give me a chainsaw any day over dental instruments)**


	32. How It Works

Bruce quickly checked the computer for the results on his search for Lydia. Twenty-five Lydias turned up; three of which were a part of the faculty of two universities within that hundred mile radius. Several more were in the medical field, either as lab assistants in research facilities, laboratories, and one in a hospital in a neighboring city. One was a biochemist listed in a research facility further afield, nearly outside the limits of his search. Two psychologists and one psychiatrist spread abroad. A dozen students within appropriate fields of study spread throughout the half dozen schools outside of Gotham and its surrounds.

He had used a program on the computer which used a conglomerate of facial features to piece together a composite picture of what the Lydia he had seen looked like. To be certain, he would like to get Dick's opinion if the boy felt up to it. He might not considering the woman was one of his torturers during his captivity.

Neither Gordon nor Harlow had been able to locate Scarecrow. There were still active APBs out on Lydia, but no sightings as yet. Too many things batman needed to be doing; too many places he needed to go . . .

He sighed. This could take a while.

He needed to get back up to the Watchtower. Barry had returned home to sleep, but had called in sick to come back and help him discover and develop the formula. J'onn had continued to work, only taking a short break once that Bruce was aware of. The Martian had greater stamina that either Barry or Bruce, and he greatly appreciated the alien's willingness to devote his time to helping him find a cure for Dick.

Dick had argued all the way home from the hospital to return to the Watchtower with him. Despite the incident from the previous evening, the boy was excited by the opportunity to go into orbit again. He had described it as flying higher than he had ever flown before . . . A description that made Bruce's mouth curve up into that ever elusive smile; except it wasn't nearly as difficult to find, not since a certain blinding ball of energy and light in the shape of one small, dark-haired boy had come to the manor to live.

Bruce leaned back in the chair and contemplated all he had learned from Dick's MRI, the smile slipping from his face as if it had never existed. The test had confirmed that the bleeding had come from Dick's middle ear canals where there was evidence of several small arterial ruptures; which accounted for the amount of bright red blood the boy had lost. However, there was no obvious reason that science could tell him as to why and how the trigger had caused so many arteries to have spontaneously ruptured.

He was discovering more questions, and finding few if any answers.

Decision made, he moved to the changing room for his uniform and his mask. While he was there, he picked up one of Robin's extra uniforms. Alfred would get the duty of checking out the various Lydias while Batman and Robin went back to the Watchtower.

Mask and blindfold back in place, Robin was carried through the zeta-tube an hour later in Batman's arms. Unable to keep the boy down for long, he was looking forward to going through the tube while awake this time. Unfortunately, he came out the other side not nearly as enthusiastic about the experience. The tube was known for making most people using it for the first few times nauseous, and it didn't help one's cause if one was already suffering inner ear and balance issues at the time.

At his moan of discomfort, Batman caught the sudden pallor of his young partner, and realized the problem at once. They barely made it to the nearest restroom before the boy's dinner made a second appearance of the night. Batman held Robin and rubbed his back as he retched and groaned at the accompanying pain it caused because of the deep tissue bruising throughout his chest.

"I'm sorry, chum," Batman crooned into his ear. "I should have realized this might be a problem."

Robin moaned and shook his head; pointing at his ear. He couldn't hear anything at the moment. The ringing was reaching epic scales in his head, contributing to his continuing nausea and the now-blinding headache. Although his dizziness prevented him from standing and walking on his own at the moment, he couldn't get his legs to even support his weight. Tears seeped from his eyes, but were immediately absorbed by the mask and then the blindfold, sparing him from looking even weaker in front of Batman and his teammates than he already was.

Even that small charity didn't last when Batman picked him back up. Robin sagged in his arms; his pounding, shrieking head suddenly too heavy to hold up on his own. He could feel the rumble of Batman talking to him; felt his breath on his ear, but he couldn't hear the man's voice at all, let alone his words. He rolled his head weakly on Batman's shoulder back and forth.

"I-I can't h-hear you," he gasped out, hoping he could be heard in a world that screamed constantly. Groaning miserably, he gave up being brave. "It hurts," he whined. "My head h-hurts."

Batman paused at his words, and then moved swiftly in the direction that Robin now recognized as containing the medical bay. He closed his eyes, knowing Batman had heard him.

Batman walked quickly toward the medical bay after Robin confirmed his plight in a too loud voice. The ringing had grown worse from the vomiting, both of which had contributed to what he could only imagine was the worst headache of the boy's life.

He laid him on a bed with extra care, not wanting to spur more sickness in a child already suffering from pain and weakness. Black Canary, seeing them arrive, followed them into the medical bay. They had already determined the previous evening that she wasn't Robin's last trigger.

"What's wrong," she asked.

"I didn't think about it before, but the zeta-tubes combined with his inner ear problems made the nausea normally experienced much worse," Batman told her. "He was asleep yesterday both times we went through. Whatever effects it might have had went unnoticed. Unfortunately, that was not the case today."

"I heard him in the bathroom, poor baby," she sympathized, remembering her first experience traveling that way.

"It doesn't help that he's got deep-tissue bruising throughout his chest. The vomiting exasperated that as well and he told me the ringing has completely blocked out his hearing . . ."

"And his head hurts," she finished for him. "He was speaking pretty loudly. How did he get the bruising?"

"CPR," he muttered. "Numerous times. But at least he got no broken ribs from it."

He started scrounging for pain relievers suitable for children. Acetaminophen he thought would be safest, and have little to no effect on the heart. Glancing back at Robin, he could see that the pain was entirely debilitating. He measured out the safest dose that would give him the kind of relief he needed, and brought it and a glass of water back to the boy.

"Watch the door," he told Black Canary. He didn't want anyone coming in at this stage. "Robin," he called the boy in his ear.

Robin turned his head, but Batman suspected it was more because Robin had felt his nearness and breath than that he had actually heard him. He reached up, and giving the boy a chance to adjust, pulled the blindfold off.

Robin flinched, and put a hand up over his eyes. The light was probably bright after twenty minutes with a blindfold, but he wondered if the headache had reached migraine level. Light itself would be painful in that case. But he needed to communicate with Robin, and without his hearing, he would need to use his sight.

Batman held up the pill and the water. After a minute to adjust, Robin finally nodded; reaching out for the medication. It was difficult to get down, and for a moment, Batman worried that the painkiller would come right back up. Once he was reassured that the boy could hold it down, he gestured for Robin to lay down and reached for the blindfold. Robin made a face at the return of the cloth, but allowed Batman to slide it over his face anyway.

The boy was being such a good sport over things he couldn't control and hated, Batman found himself thinking about ways he could make it up to him once his triggers had been neutralized. Maybe the zoo . . . Dick loved the zoo!

Once he was assured the boy was comfortable, he stood to go. Luckily, he had explained to Dick before they left that he would be waiting for him in the medical bay, and that Batman would be right across the hall in the lab. Black Canary would be watching him and getting him anything he needed in the meantime. He wanted no repeats of the previous evening.

"He knows you're here," he told Canary. "He won't panic like he did yesterday. I'll be right across the hall, so if he needs me, don't hesitate to come and get me; even for nightmares."

Canary nodded. "Will do, Bruce," she assured him as he walked across to the lab. He only glanced back twice this time, she noted with a tiny smirk.

* * *

"So, where are we," Batman asked, entering the lab.

J'onn looked up and stared at him for a moment. Satisfied by whatever he saw, the alien nodded. "We have eliminated one of the formulas. It is now down to two."

Batman frowned, knowing the Martian had just 'read' him; maybe not his thoughts since he knew J'onn understood that humans considered that rude, but perhaps his emotions. Later, he would need to educate the Martian that this, too, was considered an invasion of privacy, but not now when every second that could be spared would be spent looking for the cure to Dick's triggers.

Barry looked up from his notes. "I am leaning toward this one," he said, indicating the formula on the screen that was pulled up from the USB drive. "Most of the chemical compounds produce an opposite reaction or neutralizing effect to the ones found in the Death by Fear toxin."

Batman walked over and scanned the formula on the screen. "And how safe are these for humans," he asked. "I don't want to inject Robin with something that is just as deadly as the toxin we are trying to cure him of."

"Actually, the toxin itself is already out of his system," Barry said.

Batman looked up at him in surprise. "But Cantor's notes said that there isn't a time limit to this thing."

"No time limit to the _triggers_, no," Barry told him. "But the toxin isn't the trigger; it is the mechanism by which Crane could trick the brain into accepting the trigger . . . It allowed him to basically rewire the mind into reacting a certain way once the trigger became activated. The trigger doesn't physically cause the heart attacks. It signals the brain's autonomic system and Robin's own body does the rest. Do you understand?"

"It is a form of drug-induced hypnosis?" Batman guessed, tilting his head as he contemplated the idea.

"Yes," Barry nodded. "That is it exactly; times ten."

"Times . . . ten?" Batman glanced between them.

"In most cases of hypnosis," J'onn stepped forward to explain. "The brain protects itself against sabotage such as subliminal suggestions to induce heart attacks, respiratory failure, strokes. The Scarecrow's formula bypasses this protection to such a degree that failure is guaranteed. And as you told us yesterday, the triggers once set, cannot be removed, even if death upon activation is averted. The trigger can continue to generate the reaction over and over until either death is achieved or the brain has been sufficiently damaged to the extent that the trigger can no longer be recognized by the subconscious."

Barry winced in sympathy. "He's talking about a vegetative state."

Batman felt his chest tighten. It was getting a little harder to breathe. He moved to a stool; before he could fall down, he sat down as unobtrusively as possible. He had never been so grateful for the lenses in his mask as he did at that moment. The back of his eyes burned and he blinked rapidly to dispel the tears that blurred his vision.

"So, what you are telling me is that although you will soon have a formula for an antitoxin, it will essentially be useless?" Batman choked out, his voice even more gravelly with hard-suppressed emotions. "Robin is going to _**die**_?"

* * *

**First the bad news . . . Reactions?**

**Okay, you all know that I'm making all this stuff up. I have no idea what can be accomplished through hypnosis, drug induced or not. It sounds really good in my head, though. **

**Zeta-tubes have been noted to make a good number of people nauseous the first few times you use them. I think that Robin would not normally have any problem with them. Being an acrobat meant that he has extraordinary balance and all that, but having damage done to his inner ear would have compounded the effect to even greater than that of a normal ill reaction. Well, at least in this story. Poor baby . . . **

**You may not realize this considering how cruel I've been, but Dick is my favorite character and I love him with my whole heart. I know, it's hard to believe, but it's true!**


	33. A Dangling Thread

"So, basically, what you're trying to tell me is that Robin is going to die, even with this antitoxin." Batman felt sick.

Unable to hear more, he stumbles out of the room, waving off the help of his stunned teammates. He paused outside of the medical bay, but the wave of nausea stopped him from going in. Instead, he turned and made his way to the nearest restroom; ironically, entering the same one that Robin had occupied earlier in order to lose his own dinner.

His knees gave out and he sank to the floor. Had he locked the door behind him? He hoped to hell he did because he wasn't capable of getting up now to do it. He ripped the hated mask off of his face as the tears finally made their appearance. Alone, in a bathroom stall, Bruce felt his world tilt on its axis and he wept bitterly for the child he loved like a son.

The boy was too damned bright to be extinguished! And once more the need to rid the world of the waste that was Scarecrow rose up within him. For once he felt himself embrace it. If Dick died, then so would that maniac, even if it killed him to do it. And why not? The darkness had become so much that the weight of it threatened to crush his soul.

He had done enough, Bruce decided on the floor of the stall. He would see his boy . . . His _son_ through this, and then . . . That was it for him. He and Scarecrow would end this together – permanently!

* * *

Barry came through the door of the medical bay, startling Black Canary. He looked worried; more so when whatever he was looking for failed to appear.

"What's wrong," she asked.

"Um, has Batman been in here?"

She frowned. "No. Not since he left Robin. I thought he was going straight into the lab."

Barry looked sheepish. "He did. We were explaining what we had discovered about the toxin and how it works, and . . . Well, I guess we shouldn't have given him the bad news first."

Canary's eyes widened. "What bad news?"

He looked over at the boy, concerned. Canary followed his gaze and waved the concern away. "He can't hear us right now. Tinnitus," she explained. "Now, tell me; what bad news?"

"The antitoxin formula isn't a cure."

"What," Canary gasped, turning horrified eyes on the innocent child laying on the bed behind her. "Oh, my God! _Poor __Robin_ . . . _Poor__ Batman_! What did he say?"

"That was the problem," Barry answered. "He didn't say anything. He just left before we could explain anything more. We thought that he came here . . . You know, under the circumstances."

"Explain more?" Her eyes narrowed. "There is more?"

"Yeah, a lot more," he told her. "We haven't worked out all the details yet, but the world hasn't ended either. At least, not for him." Barry nodded in Robin's direction.

"So, then there is hope?" She wanted to be clear on that.

"Yeah," he said. "There is hope."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Batman walked into the medical bay; his eyes searching out Robin immediately. The boy was sitting up in the bed now with his arms wrapped around his knees and his chin resting there.

"Batman," Canary called. "Barry and Jon have been looking for you."

"You can go, Dinah," he told her. "I'm taking Robin home."

"But you can't yet," she said. "They want to try some things with him, and needed to talk with you about them first."

"There is nothing else that they can do," he growled. "I'm taking Robin home," he repeated, stalking up the aisle

"There is," she told him. "Barry came in looking for you. He said you left before they could finish explaining things to you."

"What? What else is there to say? The antitoxin is a waste of time," he practically snarled at her.

Canary didn't take offense. She understood what he was going through. "It isn't a complete waste. They have a theory."

Batman hesitated, his back to her.

"Wh-why didn't they say something before," he asked.

"You left too quickly," she placed her hand on his shoulder. "Go talk with them, Bruce. There is still hope."

* * *

Hope . . . Another name for the rug that is yanked out from under you. It leads you to believe that everything will be all right, but never promises anything. Some people call him cynical, and he supposed that in that they were correct, but they weren't aware of that tiny piece of his heart that struggled so desperately to hang on to that dangling thread. It was the same piece that still craved the light, and huddled around that flickering flame that was family. It was a flame that had been naught but a dying ember until a little more than a year ago when out of the darkness a spark had rekindled that flame; a spark in the shape of a child.

"I'll be there," he said, "in a few moments."

Sensing the man wanted some privacy, she eased out the door. "I'll be outside when you need me," she told him as the door slid shut behind her.

Batman walked over to the bed where Robin waited. He sat down across from him and reached out to take the boy's hand in his own. It was so small in comparison, he suddenly thought. Why had he not noticed that before? Sure, he knew Dick was small for his age; that he looked a year or two younger than he actually was, but it had always been just a 'fact' for him . . . Until now.

"Batman?"

Batman glanced at the door. He was certain that Black Canary would ensure their privacy. He pulled the blindfold from the boy's face. Robin blinked at the brightness of the light for a few moments as his eyes adjusted from darkness.

Batman flicked up the lenses, needing to see blue eyes looking at him. He peeled away the mask until it was just Bruce and Dick sitting there staring at each other.

"How's your ears," he spoke loudly into the boy's ear.

Dick smiled. He had heard that. At least that was good news, and Bruce could use some good news for a change. He pointed at the child's head as a way of asking about his headache.

"Better," Dick answered in that same too-loud voice, making Bruce smile.

"Good," he yelled back.

"What are we doing?" Dick looked up at him with trusting eyes.

"We are getting ready to hear a theory on how to stop the triggers in your head," Bruce cleared his throat. Yelling was rather difficult on one's throat, he thought. They would need to practice reading lips again, and perhaps begin ASL (American Sign Language). It could only help them in the field.

"Will it work, do you think," he asked.

Bruce tilted his head, bemused at the fact that Dick didn't even address the question to him, but rather to the corner of the room. He looked over, but saw nothing. He glanced back at the boy, and watched him look first confused, and then another minute later smile at that nothing.

"Are you asking _me_?" A shiver ran up Bruce's spine for no reason.

"Let's go," Dick said, ignoring Bruce's question and bounding off the bed, only to have Bruce scoop him up a second before he kissed the floor.

Holding the boy in his arms, Bruce couldn't help himself. "Tell me, Dick; do you believe in hope," he spoke into the Dick's ear.

Dick smiled at him. "Sure," he said brightly. "Don't you?"

Bruce thought about it a moment, as the child squirmed happily, obviously feeling better than he had in a week. Snatching up his mask, and Dick's blindfold, Bruce smiled. "You bet, kiddo! Let's go!"

* * *

**Do you believe in hope? Hope is a bright spark in the dark . . . Bruce had trouble finding it until he actually held that spark of hope in his arms. Reactions? **


	34. Sounds Like A Plan

With Robin's balance an issue, Batman chose to hold him on his lap while Barry and J'onn presented their theory. The acetaminophen had worked wonders and Batman had given him something to settle his stomach. Although the boy would still suddenly gasp in pain once in a while when he moved wrong, or rather too enthusiastically, he felt better than he had in a week. Even the blindfold wasn't doing much to slow him down. His actions were more like that of an energetic toddler than a boy of ten, as he attempted to use an unusually patient Batman as a jungle gym.

Black Canary tried to keep her attention on the talk, but her eyes kept straying to Robin as he kicked his feet; leaned over Batman's arm backward; lay his head on the Caped Crusader's shoulder only to slither halfway over just minutes later. That was his current position now, head hanging upside down along his mentor's back while Batman held onto his legs to keep him from doing a header into the floor. It was all Canary could do not to laugh out loud at the boy's antics.

It got so distracting, even to J'onn that the Martian lifted the child up with telekinesis and floated him beside Batman. Robin squealed, and once realizing he wasn't actually falling, reveled in the freedom of movement that floating afforded. The occasional giggle seemed to punctuate the discussion every here and there. Things that would have figuratively sent Batman after someone's throat in a normal meeting, had the corner of his mouth twitching in what Canary could only imagine was amusement.

Only once did Batman curb the boy's play; when he started spinning in forward rolls around and around. Batman reached over and grabbed Robin's ankle to stop the spinning. He tugged the boy nearer and spoke into his ear, loudly enough that the entire room could hear.

"I can appreciate how good you feel right now, but you will be sick again if you continue," he warned. Robin stopped . . . spinning, that is.

Canary thought he looked a lot like his namesake at the moment. This was one bird that would not thrive caged. She never thought she'd see the day when the idea of Batman as a father didn't sound ludicrous. But the child wasn't in the least cowed by the dark, brooding Bat that had full-grown adults, even those purported to be his allies, scurrying to get out of his way. The fact that he seemed to adore the man was even more amazing, but she noticed that he was extra-careful to never stray beyond the reach of the black-clad man; extending a small-gloved hand often to make certain Batman remained where the boy believed him to be. Once when he coasted a little too far and his hand missed by a few inches, Batman would gently tug him closer.

Black Canary was not what one would call a girly-girl, but even she had to crush the urge to squeal from the adorableness of it all! She sighed. It was just as well, since her squeals would have everyone in the room sharing Robin's perforated eardrum plight if she did.

She bit the inside of her cheek in order to keep her attention on the matter at hand. It was a serious topic, after all. Lives were on the line . . . Robin floated upside down with his legs crossed Indian-style; his cape dangling nearly to the floor. He slid the edge of his blindfold off, and she was startled to realize that the white lenses that normally covered his eyes had been slid back. Amazingly blue eyes sparkled at her, and he winked. A bark of laughter was startled out of her, and everyone stopped to glance back at her as the boy slid the blindfold back down over his face without anyone else being the wiser. The impish grin, however, remained.

"Sorry," she mumbled, a flush creeping over her cheeks.

Oh, that boy was good, she thought, amused. She was looking forward to returning the favor once he was truly back on his feet; this threat to his life vanquished.

* * *

"So, what is this theory Black Canary told me about," Batman asked.

"We apologize for not coming straight out with our theory in the beginning. We didn't mean to talk so long on the negative aspect of formula," Barry told him. "You left so quickly, we weren't able to actually explain the theory we've come up with based upon Jeremy Cantor's copious notes."

"Which is?"

"That while the formula that Cantor came up with wasn't an actual cure, what it is, is another version to Scarecrow's own toxin; a stronger version," Barry explained.

J'onn took over here. "The process to implant the triggers needed the drug to bypass the brain's own natural defenses and program it to react certain ways once the image or sound activated the trigger. This process, according to the notes is a two-step process, and to remove this programming, the reverse process will also require multiple-steps."

Batman frowned, "Okay. All right, that sounds reasonable. Is that where the visor and the earphones come in?"

Barry shook his head. "No, we can't use them at all. It would be exposing Robin to his triggers once more and whatever chances we might have to remove those triggers would be lost because we would have to stop in order to save his life."

"We will need to go inside of his head psychically," J'onn told him. "Cantor's formula will be administered, and once it takes effect, I will enter Robin's mind and attempt to remove the triggers and their programming. I suppose you could call it psychic surgery. Cantor's formula will help open the boy's mind to what I will be doing, and break down his brain's natural resistance."

"Why couldn't we just use the Scarecrow's original toxin to do the same thing," Batman asked.

"We could, but there is a chance that Robin's brain will cling to traces of the programming. That the removal wouldn't be complete and Robin would continue to have problems when confronted with those images or sounds," Barry said.

"In all honestly," J'onn added. "It could _still_ present a problem. We just don't know because what we are doing has never been done before."

"Not even on Mars, J'onn?" Canary spoke up from her position by the door.

The alien looked sad for a moment. "Something similar has occurred on Mars, I am ashamed to say, but it wasn't done with the aid of a drug. Then there is the fact that the human brain's physiology is somewhat different from that of a Martian brain."

"What happened to those Martians," Batman asked. "I assume that a removal was attempted on them as well."

J'onn hesitated, before telling him. "There were instances of success. Perhaps it would have benefited us to have used a drug during the removal process, but unfortunately that option was never considered."

"J'onn, what happened to them," Batman repeated.

"Most merely succumbed to the assassination attempts and died. Those few that were discovered and removals attempted, only two were able to return to their lives without . . . side effects."

Batman stood up; that was all, just stood up. Everyone took a single, measured step in retreat, including the Martian Manhunter.

"What. Side. Effects," he growled.

"Discomfort in either the form of unreasonable fear or pain when confronted with their previous triggers; panic attacks were common. Only one was left so incapacitated as to be unable to resume some semblance of his previous life. There were no deaths among them, however." J'onn reluctantly admitted.

"Those few," Batman said. "How many were there exactly?"

"Eight,"

Batman was silent for a moment as he sank back onto the stool. "Those aren't very good odds, J'onn."

"I know, but as I was saying, we did not use drugs as an aid. And please keep in mind, my friend," J'onn added softly, "the alternative."

Four sets of eyes slid, at that remark, to the young one as he floated on his back, seemingly oblivious to the conversation, next to Batman.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Robin stated, surprising everyone. No one had realized that the young acrobat could hear well enough to have been listening throughout his antics. "I'm really sick of wearing this blindfold."

* * *

**Short, as far as my chapters usually go, but it sets you up for the following chapters. The side effects are kind of ominous, though. Hm . . . Reactions?**

**Yes, I plan another chapter for today. **


	35. Distasteful Things

**Warning: A little bad language . . .**

* * *

"How soon can you get the formula synthesized?"

"Shouldn't take more than a few hours," Barry said.

Batman looked at the clock. It was already getting late. For all of Robin's energy during the meeting, he was definitely lagging now. Thankfully, his pain and nausea were still being held at bay.

"Tomorrow would be better," he said. "After everyone has eaten and gotten some sleep."

J'onn nodded. "I am staying on the Watchtower. I will oversee the making of the formula in the meantime."

Barry smiled. "That works for me. Iris has barely seen me in the past couple of days. And I am famished!"

Batman shook each man's hands. "I thank you for taking time out of your heavy schedules to do this for us," he said.

"Think nothing of it, my friend," J'onn told him. "Your young protégé is quite adept at endearing himself to others."

Barry agreed. "There is no way I could have refused. That kid of yours is a beacon of light, and we all know the world needs every one of those it can get."

* * *

Bruce stood over Dick's bed watching the boy sleep. It was good seeing some of the boy's normal boundless energy and personality again, however fleeting it was. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and stroked a hand through the silky strands. He hesitated at edge of his head wound. The swelling was gone, even if the stitches were not.

Perhaps once the triggers were gone, and it was safe to let him roam again, it would be easier for his memories to return. He was pleased that the ringing had retreated well enough he caught parts of the conversation in the lab today. It gave him hope that the hearing loss wasn't permanent.

He shuddered remembering the blood that ran from those ears just two days ago. It would take him years to get over that moment, and he knew that the image would continue to haunt him until the day he died.

This theory that Flash and the Martian had come up with had better work. The side effects were daunting, and the chances that Dick could come out of this unscathed were slim. It wouldn't matter to him, Bruce, because Dick would always have a place in his home; in his heart, but it would matter to Dick. He couldn't return to the field as Robin if the side effects were debilitating. How could he when he wouldn't be able to look Batman in the face without losing it?

_It was better than death however_, a voice inside his head reminded him. He silently thanked Jeremy Cantor, wherever he was now, that he had taken the precautions he did to protect Robin. Bruce wouldn't have been able to live with himself had he been the one to bring on the attack that ultimately killed the boy.

What Barry had said about the boy being a beacon, had been correct. The world needed him, but most of all, Batman needed him, and . . . Bruce Wayne. Had people once called him cold and emotionless? They hadn't seen him lately.

Dick frowned in his sleep, a tiny moan slipping out between his lips.

Bruce sighed. He knew the nightmares would come. The boy seldom could pass two nights without at least one, and after the events of this week, it was only a matter of time. So far, his exhaustion had kept most of them at bay, only two had shown up to plague him.

Batman had work to do, but patrol wasn't for a few more hours yet. Bruce kicked off his shoes, lifted the covers and rolled Dick over. He slid in behind the boy and pulled the child back against his chest; laying a protective arm around his small frame. He could use a nap anyway, and knew that Alfred would wake him in a few hours if he overslept.

Dick wrapped an arm around Bruce's larger one and sighed, whatever monster lurking in his subconscious slain by the mere presence of this child's protector. It was interesting how Dick could somehow sense his presence even in sleep. Hell, he had done something similar in the medical bay while blindfolded. Alfred said they had a bond . . . Bruce closed his eyes and let sleep take him on that thought.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Master Bruce," Alfred was saying. "I went through every Lydia that the computer listed and compared their photographs with the composite image you had left for me. None of the women listed matched."

Bruce clenched his teeth, and struggled not to allow his temper reign. "This is madness, Alfred," he growled. "The woman couldn't have simply popped up out of thin air fully formed. She had to come from somewhere!"

"Perhaps if we took the search further afield, sir?"

"What? Should we be searching the entire United States for her?" Bruce swung around and walked to the Batmobile. He opened the door and tossed his cowl on the passenger seat. He wouldn't put it on until after he passed out of the Batcave.

He scowled as he tried to think of where the woman was hiding. Possibly with Crane, himself, he thought, as he walked back to the computer. He wished that Alfred could stay and help him solve this problem. The man was fairly gifted with thinking outside the box, despite his proper English upbringing. Perhaps it was his years of having to deal with the Batman that had warped his thinking . . . But Alfred needed to head upstairs and be with Dick. Even though the boy was sleeping peacefully, thanks to the baby monitor that Alfred had purchased earlier while they had been at the Watchtower, it could change in a heartbeat, and any separation from one or the other of his protectors made Bruce nervous.

His eyes strayed to the receiver sitting prominently on the edge of the computer. Dick hadn't noticed the monitor when he went to bed. He could barely keep his eyes open as he went through his normal bedtime routines. But tomorrow . . . Tomorrow, Bruce had a feeling both he and Alfred would be feeling the boy's wrath upon learning that they were using a monitor for _babies_ to check on him. Amusement made his mouth quirk up into a fleeting smile.

"Is it possible that the woman changed her name, sir?" Alfred's voice cut into his thoughts and brought him back on subject.

"God, I hope not," he grumbled, all traces of amusement banished. "That would enlarge the scope of our search to nearly impossible parameters."

"We could start small," Alfred suggested. "Gotham City's female chemists, biochemists, laboratory technicians, psychiatrists, and psychologists."

"Add to that every female student and recent graduate in those fields at Gotham Community College, Gotham's University of Science and Technology, and Hudson University _not_ named Lydia," Bruce grunted. "That's hardly starting small, Alfred."

"What choice do we have? Before I head upstairs," Alfred added. "I will continue a second search of Lydias in those fields outside of our hundred mile radius; one that will encompass the state."

Bruce shook his head. "This is ridiculous. It will take us a week to go through all of these names. There has to be something we're missing!"

Alfred looked up from where he had begun programming the newest search parameters into the Batcomputer. "Perhaps you might try speaking with that detective that had so impressed you before. Harlow, I believe his name was?"

Bruce frowned, glancing at his butler-cum-everything. "You know," he mused. "That might not be such a bad idea."

As for thinking outside of the box, Bruce strongly suspected that there hadn't been a box made that could contain the clever Detective Harlow. As uncomfortable as it was to have the man read his every thought simply through observation alone, it intrigued him. He'd like to see if he could do it again. Maybe it was some sort of parlor trick . . . Although, if it was, it was quite an impressive one.

Alfred hummed as he initiated the search. He straightened, picking up the baby monitor receiver, and turned to his employer.

"Yes," he said, dryly. "I have been known to come up with one or two of those '_not-bad_' ideas upon occasion."

Bruce smirked. "You know what I mean."

"As frightening as it is to contemplate, Master Bruce," Alfred looked at him; a single, raised eyebrow the only expression on an otherwise stoic face. "Indeed, I do."

"Well, I needed to reassure the man that he would be getting his evidence back soon, anyway. He's too talented to be fired for helping me." Bruce put on his utility belt, and picked up his gloves.

"And tomorrow the Martian Manhunter and the Flash will be attempting to rid our boy of those dreadful triggers permanently?" Alfred asked.

"Yes," he said. "Although it still bothers me."

Alfred tilted his head, frowning. "How so, sir," he asked. "I thought that this was Master Dick's best chance."

"Unfortunately, it is," Bruce slapped his gloves against his leg in agitation. "But there are side effects that could still plague him for the rest of his life. In fact, the odds are good that this will be exactly the case."

"Oh, dear," Alfred sat down in the chair at the computer. "What sort of side effects?"

"J'onn said that panic attacks when confronted with the original triggers afterwards were common. He also mentioned unreasonable fear or even pain could occur. In at least one case, the effects were debilitating enough that it prevented the victim from resuming his normal life."

"But death is averted?"

"Yes, Alfred, thank God for that. Death is averted in every case." Bruce admitted. "He also said the reversing the triggers in all those cases were done without the help of drugs. He feels that by using Cantor's formula, it will increase Dick's chances for a full recovery."

"It appears we don't have much choice in the matter, then, sir. The boy certainly cannot remain as he is. Better a life with some small handicap than to risk death every time a glass is shattered or he turns on the television." Alfred nodded, as if reassuring himself that this was true.

"I still worry," Bruce admitted. "Even with this treatment, Dick's days as Robin could be over."

Alfred stood up, pausing to brush nonexistent wrinkles from his perfectly pressed suit. "I'll admit that I don't find that particular outcome as terrible as Master Dick might."

"Ah, that may be, old friend," Bruce pursed his lips and grimaced. "But that is only because _you_ wouldn't be the one to explain it to him."

"Yes," he said. "There is that."

"I hate this, Alfred . . ."

"I thought that despite the potential side effects, that this was to be considered a good thing, Master Bruce," Alfred frowned. "In what way does this bother you still?"

"It's just that everything is still so uncertain. No one really knows what will happen after this so-called treatment," he said. "Crane used Dick to experiment on, as if he were some kind of lab rat. The bastard even kept him in a cage, Alfred! And now, we will basically be doing the exact same thing: experimenting on him."

"I hardly see the similarities, sir," Alfred protested. "You won't be doing this against his will, and certainly no one will be strapping him down or holding him in a cage!"

"Semantics! That is all it is, Alfred! Semantics!" Bruce snarled. He turned away and began shoving his hands into his gloves. "I-I'm sorry, Alfred. I'm not angry with you, but the situation. I shouldn't have yelled."

"There is nothing to forgive, Master Bruce," the butler reassured him. "The situation is a horrible one, but not one without hope. We must keep our spirits up, and do the things we must, however distasteful we may find them."

_Hope_. There was that word again . . . Bruce nodded and waved to the man who had essentially raised him to adulthood. The butler was more like a father to him than a mere employee. His wisdom, when taken, had never failed him. Sliding behind the wheel of the Batmobile, he prepared to do what he must, no matter how _distasteful_ . . . But there were certain things that were too bitter for even him to swallow without protest.

* * *

**Reactions? **


	36. I Trust You

**No warnings . . .**

* * *

Batman sat across from Detective Harlow in the all-night diner. It amused him, all of the looks they were getting. Not many in this area had seen the Dark Knight in anything but the papers or on the news, let alone doing something so mundane as to be drinking coffee and eating apple pie in a dive like this one.

Well, Harlow was eating the pie . . .

"Are you sure you wouldn't like a piece," the detective offered. "I'd buy, you know." Harlow didn't know what the guy did for a day job, but the pay for vigilantism had to stink. "Place doesn't look like much, but they sure make a mean pie."

"The coffee is plenty," Batman said, raising it to his lips. Truthfully, he thought, it wasn't bad. It wasn't in the running for Alfred's coffee, of course, but it was drinkable, and easily on par with what his secretary would bring him at the office.

"Well, I wish there was some way to thank you for your help earlier in that murder/robbery case," Harlow said.

Batman's mouth came as close to a smile as it ever did at this comment. "No thanks are necessary, detective, as I did nothing to earn them."

"Sure you did," Harlow insisted. "Your presence alone made it easier to get that confession out of them," he said, referring to the twenty-something couple that had robbed a convenience store and shot everyone present before the police arrived; including the clerk, a middle-aged man, and a teenager out past his curfew.

"You had a confession by the time I arrived," Batman noted.

"Ah, but not the correct one," Harlow remarked. "If we had just taken their word for it, the chick would have been sent up on three counts of murder in the first, and the real murderer would have spent a few years in jail, only to be released back on the streets. Not only that, but getting the truth out of them, also closed an older case where the guy had first robbed and murdered the gun's original owner. So, the bad guy gets to go to jail for four counts of murder in the first, as well as two armed robberies, fleeing the scene of the crime, lying to officers, assault and battery against his girlfriend as well as attempting to frame her for the crime."

"All of that, hm?" Batman sipped at his drink.

"Give me an hour," Harlow said. "I'm pretty sure I can come up with more. Anyway, without you, it might have taken me a couple of more hours to break him down, and then we wouldn't be here enjoying this delicious pie . . . Well, '_I'_ wouldn't be here enjoying this delicious pie."

"You told me to just stand there and be myself," Batman flattened his lips to contain a smirk.

"And you did so beautifully," he saluted the vigilante with his coffee cup. "Now then, what might I do for you?"

"I wanted to thank you for allowing me access to Crane's equipment that you got for me," Batman told him. "I will be returning it to you in another couple of days."

Harlow nodded. "How's Robin doing, anyway? Did that stuff help you get rid of those triggers you were telling me about?"

"It assisted in understanding what Crane did to implant them, and by doing so, we think we may have discovered the way to remove them."

Harlow eyes narrowed slightly as he nodded. "Good," he said. "That's good. And those papers; were they a help?"

"Very much so. I will be returning the five originals that I took as well with the equipment."

"That will be a relief," Harlow said. "The papers weren't missed, what with all those other papers scattered around, but it would do my conscience a world of good to have them back. The equipment was a bit harder to explain to my captain, however."

Batman frowned. "Did you get into trouble with your captain? Do you think that the man would react well if I were to visit him and explain the situation personally?"

Harlow waved his offer away. "No, we're good. Just a verbal reprimand. Nothing more will come of it if everything gets put back soon. So, if I ask, will you tell me?"

Eyebrows rose curiously behind the cowl. "Ask first, and then I will see."

"Who's '_we_'," Harlow asked. "You said, '_we_ think _we_ may have discovered a way to remove them'. Can you tell me without endangering the free world or causing an intergalactic incident?"

"I requested help from a couple of members of the Justice League," Batman told him. It was unlike him to make a slip like that, but apparently not unlike Harlow to catch it.

"Don't worry about it," Harlow said. "Everybody makes slips on occasion. You're only human under that cowl, right?"

Batman blinked. He did it again; read him like a book. "I'm human," he assured him.

"Anything else I can do for you?"

"My search for the lab assistant has thus far been unfruitful," Batman admitted, slowly.

"Right," he said. "The woman, Lydia. We've had no hits on her either, but the APB is still in effect. I've wired a copy of that composite photograph you sent me out to all of the departments in Gotham and her surrounding areas. She's either fled the immediate area or she's gone to ground."

"Correct," Batman nodded. "I have been searching chemists, biochemists, psychiatrists, as well as students in those fields, and faculty in colleges and universities with the name Lydia within a hundred mile radius with no results."

Harlow leaned back in his seat, and rubbed a hand over his mouth. His eyes had taken on a slightly unfocused look as he thought about it.

"I suppose she could have changed her name . . ."

Alfred's theory, Batman thought.

"But . . ." Harlow sat up and leaned on the table. "Have you tried looking at the records of drop-outs in those fields or faculty members who have been let go in the past couple of years or so? She didn't look old enough to have acquired tenure if she were an instructor. She might have quit, or she could have been let go due to budget cuts, or fired for one reason or another" Harlow shrugged. "Personally, considering she chose the Scarecrow as her next boss, I wouldn't be surprised if she had been tossed out on her can for unethical behavior. How would she keep a job while working with the Scarecrow? Bound to eat up time from your work schedule. Why would she be working for a villain if she were pulling a regular paycheck?"

Behind his lenses, Batman blinked again. _How_ could he have missed something so fundamental? He might even expand on that if he looked into other work places for Lydias that had been fired. Robin had called her the 'mean one' . . . ethical misconduct sounds like something this woman might have been fired for. And finding Lydia might enable him to locate Scarecrow. It was a new way to go. No longer did he feel as though he was fumbling around at a dead end. It gave him . . . _hope_.

When he refocused on the man in front of him, Harlow was grinning.

"Glad to have helped," he said.

"You were right about sound being a possible trigger," Batman admitted quietly.

The grin slid off of Harlow's face. "Oh . . . no." he groaned. "You said the boy was okay, though, so he obviously pulled through it. You must be terrified for him. I'm sorry. Look," he said. "I'll see about stepping up the search for Scarecrow and this Lydia-chick, okay?"

"It was bad," Batman admitted. "But he's improved a lot since then. I . . . I would appreciate any . . . help, I can get."

Harlow nodded. "I can tell it isn't in your nature to ask, so I thought I would just offer."

Batman wasn't used to feeling gratefulness. Until this case was over and Scarecrow and Lydia were back in Arkham or in jail, he would need to get over it. He would be willing to swallow a lot more than his pride to keep his child safe. He waved the waitress over, paying for the check despite the detective's objections, and left her a generous tip. He owed Harlow a lot more than a slice of pie and a cup of coffee.

* * *

Bruce had just stepped out of the shower when he heard a loud thump from across the hall. Dripping wet, with only a towel for cover, he raced to Dick's room. The boy was sitting propped against the wall outside of his bathroom door. Alfred was nowhere to be seen.

"Dick! Are you alright?"

He ran over to the child whose face was beet red. He placed a hand on the boy's forehead to check for a fever, but Dick pushed it away.

"I'm embarrassed, not sick," he grumbled, irritably.

Bruce frowned down at him. "Where is Alfred?"

"I asked him for some French toast for breakfast. He's downstairs," Dick answered.

Running footsteps came pounding down the hall. Alfred halted in the doorway, the baby monitor receiver clutched in one hand. He was panting as his eyes scanned the room and landed on the two occupants.

"Master Dick! Are you all right," he gasped, moving into the room.

"Yes, Alfred," he muttered, ducking his head.

"Whatever are you doing out of bed, young sir?"

Dick looked back and forth between them before he slumped, sighing. "I had to go to the bathroom," he said in a small voice.

"Why didn't you ask one of us to take you, chum," Bruce asked.

"Because I'm not a _baby_," he suddenly yelled. "I'm _not_! Even though you both seem to think I am!" His eyes were focused on the baby monitor receiver currently in Alfred's hand like a laser beam.

"We know you're not, son," Bruce told him, gently. "It is just a way for us to keep an ear out for when you need help."

"I thought that was what the radios were for," he complained.

"This is for those times when you might not be able to call for help," Bruce explained.

Bruce looked behind him at the distance the boy had made it from the bed. Not bad, he thought. It was certainly better than his falling over as soon as he stood on his feet. Dick obviously didn't appreciate the improvement yet, but Bruce certainly did.

"You made it all the way over here before losing your balance," he asked for clarification.

Dick glanced at the distance, and shrugged. "Actually a little less than this. I stumbled a few feet before crashing into the wall."

"Good job," Bruce praised.

Dick frowned. "Not good enough, obviously," he groused. "I didn't make it to the bathroom."

As subtle reminders go, it worked. Bruce tucked his towel more securely, and then scooped the boy up in his arms.

* * *

A little later, Dick was settled back in bed with tray of French toast across his lap. Bruce ate his breakfast in the chair nearby. The breakfast treat seemed to go a long way to picking up his mood.

"Are you ready for today, chum," Bruce asked.

"Sure. I'm tired of having to stay in my room and having to wear a blindfold when I go out anywhere else," Dick said, downing his milk.

"I know you were listening yesterday," he said to the boy. "But do you have any questions about what is supposed to happen?"

Dick turned his head. "Well, actually . . ."

"Go on," Bruce encouraged him. "What do you want to know?"

"Um, can you go over everything again?" Dick blushed.

Bruce shook his head. "You let us believe that you were listening in to all of it."

"No, you assumed I heard all of it. I just said what I did because I was bored," the boy ducked his head.

"Exactly how much did you hear," Bruce frowned.

"Um . . . Something about 'what', and 'effects' and 'odds'."

Bruce groaned. "I thought you had some idea what was going on. I should have talked with you about it yesterday, but you were so tired."

"I'm not tired now," he chirped.

"Okay, then here is the gist of it," Bruce began to explain.

Dick stared at Bruce with eyes the size of saucers once the explanation was over. "Martian Manhunter is going to do surgery on my _brain_?"

"Not real surgery, Dick. Psychic surgery." At the boy's blank expression, Bruce continued. "He is going to use his mind to enter yours and find those triggers the Scarecrow implanted in your head."

"Is he going to cut them out?" The boy squirmed nervously.

"No, not with a knife, anyway."

"Will it hurt? Will he have to shave my head? Will I have more stitches?" Dick's questions came fast and hard.

"No, it shouldn't hurt. No, he will not have to shave your head. And no, you will not require stitches when it is done," Bruce answered patiently. It was evident the boy didn't understand very much about telepathy. "Do you have any questions about the side effects that might occur afterwards?"

The boy shivered. "Panic attacks, ugh! Those don't sound like fun, but it has to be better than getting more CPR." He rubbed his chest unconsciously.

Bruce felt a surge of guilt. He had helped put some of those bruises on his chest. But the alternative had been unthinkable . . . Still he wasn't comfortable with Dick going through this without it being tested. How was this any different than what Crane had done to him? They only had a vague idea of what the results would be.

They were out of time, however. Batman and Robin were due at the Watchtower in an hour. He stood and removed Dick's tray. He handed the boy more painkiller and Dramamine. At least, this time they might make it through the zeta-tube without having to lose Alfred's delicious breakfast. It was far better going down than it was coming back up.

"Let's go," he said, catching the boy as Dick launched himself at him. As he handed the boy the blindfold, Dick paused and turned Bruce's face to face him with a small hand on his cheek.

"It's going to be all right, Dad," he smiled at him. "I trust you."

* * *

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**Yup! Who's the woman? That's right . . . 3! Count 'em, THREE whole chapters in a day! With luck, maybe one tomorrow!**


	37. Argument

**WARNING: Language . . .**

* * *

"So, this is how it is going to go," Barry told them. "We will give Robin the first injection, and then after about ten minutes, Jon will initiate the trance with a strobe light."

"I thought you weren't going to use the visor," Batman said.

"We're not," Barry assured him. "We designed this one only to work as a strobe to assist Robin into the trance. The real work will begin once the trance has been achieved."

"I will enter the boy's mind," Jon began. "And search out the area in which the triggers have been implanted. From there I will attempt to neutralize them starting with your cowl. With luck, it will be completely."

Batman held up his hand.

"What is it, my friend," Jon asked.

"How will we know it worked," Batman asked.

The two men looked at one another, and then at Batman. "There is only one way," Jon told him. "We will have the crash cart ready. We will make him as safe as we can before testing the results."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not comfortable with this," he told them.

Jon tilted his head. "You know I will take extra care not to harm him in any way, Batman."

"Honestly, Jon, it isn't _just_ your part that concerns me here," he said. "It's this injection. Do we really know what it is going to do to him? What assurances do we have that this won't harm him or send him into shock or another cardiac arrest?"

Barry glanced at the boy sitting far more quietly today than he did previously. He was still twitching and squirming a bit on his stool; with Batman's hand protectively on his shoulder so that he didn't tumble off. He had discovered with the rest of them that Robin hadn't actually heard their discussion the day before, although his hearing had improved dramatically overnight. He still claimed the ringing was loud, but not enough that he couldn't hear people talking in normal tones in proximity to him so long as they faced him.

"I tested it," he said, not wanting to go into it in detail. He had heard that Robin was a big animal lover; add that to his recent horrific experiences as a lab rat himself. Barry expected them to waste precious time comforting the child if he went into detail in front of him.

"And?" Batman wanted to be as certain as possible that no adverse reaction would happen to Robin.

"No complications that we can see, although the tests were not on humans," Barry reminded him.

"How long has it been since you began the testing," Batman asked.

Barry looked over at the child again. "It's been over twenty-four hours."

"That's hardly long enough," Batman complained.

Barry ran a hand through his hair. He lowered his voice in hopes that Robin's hearing hadn't improved enough to hear what he needed to say. "Batman, you brought us in on this. I can only assume that you trust us. We all agree that time is of the essence, and we all know that there are risks involved. But the risks of doing this do not outweigh the risk of death if we do nothing! Batman, I understand your fear for the boy, but without this treatment, his life is essentially over."

"What is it you want from us, my friend," Jon asked him.

"I want the procedure tested first," Batman stated matter-of-factly. "On a human."

"Not possible, and you know it," Barry argued, his voice rising now.

"It is possible," Batman insisted. "I want you to give me Crane's toxin and implant a trigger. Then we will test the procedure on a human," he said. "On _me_!"

"Are you fucking _serious_?" Barry yelled, forgetting the presence of a child in the room. "There is _no way_ we are doing this to another person, let alone _you_!"

"No, Batman!" Jon stood with Flash on this one. "It is too dangerous!"

"And that, gentlemen, is exactly my point," Batman growled. "I won't have him used as a damned _guinea pig_! That is what Crane did to him! We will test it first. If it works on me, then we will do it on him."

"I am _not_ putting a damned trigger in your head! That's _crazy_! That's _insane_," Barry yelled in his face; the Batglare not working on him for once.

"Do you want to save his life?" Batman snarled.

"Of course we do! That's why we're here!" Barry glared right back.

"Then this is how you do it."

Barry looked over Batman's shoulder. "Will you _please_ talk some sense into him?"

Batman whipped around to find half the league in the doorway. He stepped closer to Robin, pulling the boy to his chest and flinging the cape around him. He had allowed the boy to pull off the blindfold upon entering the lab as he had caught glimpses of both the Flash and Martian Manhunter before without activating his last trigger. It seemed cruel to make him continue to wear the blindfold when it wasn't necessary. But with the exception of Black Canary, the rest of the League was still a risk.

"What the hell are you doing in here," Batman glared at them.

Green Arrow and Green Lantern stood beside Black Canary, behind them was another Leaguer, Aquaman.

Green Arrow shrugged his shoulders. "We heard yelling."

"What's going on?" Canary stepped in front of the others. "I thought you were going to perform the procedure on Robin."

"Batman wants the procedure to be tested first," Jon explained.

Canary frowned, looking at the three men facing her. "That's sounds like a reasonable request."

"On himself," Jon continued.

"What?" Canary gaped.

Barry threw his arms in the air in frustration. "Batman wants us to inject him with Crane's Death by Fear toxin and implant a trigger, then do the procedure on him first to see if it is safe enough."

"That's . . . That's crazy," Canary said. "You would be endangering two lives instead of one. Batman, Robin has no choice whether or not to get the procedure done on him, but you don't have to. What if something does go wrong?"

"Then it will go wrong on me," Batman ground out.

"But you would leave Robin all alone," she went on. "Doing this first wouldn't necessarily make him any safer, but would risk him losing you in the process!"

"What is going on? What risks are you talking about," Aquaman asked. "And what happened to your cowl?"

"I kind of agree with Canary on this one, Bats," Green Lantern spoke up.

Green Arrow leaned against the door. "I don't know. I get where Batman's coming from here." When every eye turned toward him, he threw his hands up in surrender. "What? I'm just saying that if it were my kid, I'd be demanding the same thing."

"Will no one explain to me what this 'Death by Fear' toxin is?" Aquaman glared. "What is this trigger you are talking about? Who is Robin?"

"Robin is Batman's kid," Lantern told him.

"His sidekick," Arrow said a second later.

"His _partner_," came a child's voice.

* * *

During the course of their argument, no one had noticed the boy slithering off of the chair and out from under Batman's cape. Now he stood in the middle of the room, facing off with the League, his eyes roaming from one face to another.

"Robin!" Batman lunged for the boy.

Robin leapt away, stumbled a few steps before going down on one knee. He held up his hand to prevent Batman from scooping him up. Amazingly enough, the Dark Knight halted. He held out a hand instead. Robin took the hand, and pulled himself to his feet. He listed briefly before finally leaning into his mentor's side.

He looked at everyone in the room as he announced himself. "I'm Robin. I'm Batman's partner."

Getting his first real look at the boy, Lantern grinned. "Cute kid."

Arrow, however, looked angry. "My God, how _old_ is he? He's just a _baby_!"

"I am _NOT_ a _baby_," Robin yelled.

"Yeah, kid, you are," Arrow retorted. "What the hell are you thinking, bringing a child of . . . What? Seven? Into this line of work?"

"I'm _ten_," Robin ground out.

"Uh huh, well, you look seven," Arrow ignored the daggers the kid was sending him.

"Robin is perfectly capable of handling himself out there," Batman replied calmly.

"And is that why you are both here," Arrow asked him, snidely. "Because he handled himself right into getting captured by the Scarecrow and getting experimented on?"

Batman stiffened under the accusation. Robin, however, became calmer, knowing that Batman had his back. He grabbed his mentor's hand, squeezing it to gain the man's attention. Looking down, the Caped Crusader ignored Arrow to kneel down in front of his partner.

"What is it, Robin? You have something to say," Batman asked in an almost gentle tone of voice.

"I don't want you getting a trigger," Robin told him.

He grimaced. "I know you don't, chum, but I need to know you're safe first. This is the only way."

"I will need to have it done eventually anyway," the boy insisted. "You explained the risks to me. I'm willing to take them."

"I'm not so willing," Batman told him. "This will help ensure a better result."

"At what cost?" Robin shook his head. "Gotham needs you too much to have you weakened, Batman, please."

"You are more important . . ."

"Not more . . ." Robin shook his head.

"All Right. You are at least as important as I am to Gotham. But you are _more_ important to _me_." Batman squeezed his shoulder.

"Batman, do you trust me?" Robin flicked up his lenses.

He thought it was safe since he had his back to most of the room; the completely silent room that was listening intently to everything the two Caped Crusaders had to say. Robin thought suddenly that the Justice League was filled with a bunch of old gossips.

"I trust you, chum," Batman said, flicking up his own lenses so that he could meet his boy's eyes. "But I don't trust the scum that run around on the streets out there."

Robin shook his head. "No, you either trust me or you don't. I know this scares you. It scares me, too," he tried to whisper.

He didn't want the others to know that Batman could get scared. He still had a lot of ringing in his ears, however, and hoped that he wasn't actually talking really loud instead.

"I need you to be strong for me," Robin told him. "If you get a trigger, and then get a bunch of these side effects, how will you be able to do that when we're out on the street? If I need you then, how can you be strong for me if one of the side effects weakens you to the point you can't function?"

Batman sighed. "Robin, you don't understand . . ."

"I understand that the world needs Batman. I'm just your sidekick . . ."

"You're my _partner_," Batman corrected him.

"I'm also the short one," Robin pursed his lips. He didn't like it, but it was true. "I look seven."

One corner of Batman's mouth quirked up. "He exaggerated. You don't look seven."

"If you go down," Robin reiterated. "I may not be able to catch you. But you _always_ catch me. I trust you, Dad." He whispered, leaning close. "Will you trust me, too?"

"If you cannot function, then you cannot be Robin anymore," Batman needed him to understand it all.

"Let's hope that doesn't happen then," he said. "Because I really like being Robin."

"I don't want you experimented on. This hasn't been tested enough," he told him.

"Someone has to be the first," he smiled up at his Dark Guardian as he slid his lenses back into place. "Why not me?"

"Hm," Batman grunted. "I should have left you at home until this was over."

Robin grinned. "But you didn't," he said, and turned around to the room as Batman slid his own lenses down. "Okay, people!" He announced. "Party's over. Time to get down to business."

* * *

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	38. First Attempt

**WARNING: Language . . . (Forgive me. Batman was upset.)**

* * *

Robin lay on one of the beds in the medical bay. He was restless with nervousness about the upcoming procedure, and Batman couldn't blame him. He sat in a chair next to the boy and held his hand, hoping to comfort the child.

He still didn't like this; hated it, in fact, but Robin had made the decision, and if Batman were to prove his respect for his partner, he would abide by it. Nothing said he had to be happy about it, however. The scowl on his face had people tiptoeing past him; tense as if they were expecting him to spring on them without a moment's notice, or toss a Batarang their way at any second. He'd find it amusing if Robin wasn't facing an untested procedure to cure him of a deadly condition.

Barry approached with a syringe, and Robin's hand tightened around his mentor's. Batman squeezed back. No one liked needles, but Robin's amnesia apparently didn't extend to his more recent experiences with shots. Even with his mask in place, Robin's panic was obvious; in the tension in his body; in his face; in his breathing. The beeping of the EKG that was set up to record his heart rate increased in speed dramatically, although not dangerously – yet.

"Take it easy, Robin," Barry told him, gently. "This is the easy part."

"Uh, me and needles," Robin responded. "Don't have a very good working relationship."

Barry grimaced, but didn't stop. He didn't want to hurt the boy, but he knew Robin understood the need.

"Robin, look at me," Batman ordered.

The boy obeyed, turning his face away, but the mask didn't hide the facts that he squeezed his eyes shut. His breathing sped up, bordering on hyperventilation. The EKG indicated his heart actually skipped a beat when the cool wash of the solution began to spread through his veins as Barry injected the contents of the syringe through the PICC line still present in his arm.

Robin was trembling, Batman noted. His skin was pale and cool, but there was a fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead. The boy sat up quickly, and Batman tensed in case he got the sudden urge to run. He didn't, but his struggles with his flashback were becoming apparent. He squirmed, bent his knees and wrapped his arms around them.

"Are you all right?" his guardian asked. His heart rate remained elevated, and his breathing was becoming erratic.

"I will be," the boy told him.

Almost immediately he took control of his breathing; taking deeper breaths, slowing it down. His heart rate followed soon after. It was the bravest thing Batman had seen in a long while, coming as it did so close to Robin's torture during Crane's experimentation. Pride in his protégé swelled.

"Being able to move helps," Robin said. "That, and you being here." He glanced over at his guardian; a small smile trembled on his lips.

"If you're here, I know nothing truly bad will happen to me," the boy admitted.

Fresh guilt surged. Dick had experienced two of his triggers while he was around. The only thing bad that _didn't_ happen was death . . . _No_, he thought with a growl, _permanent death_, remembering horrid monotonous alarm that had indicated no heartbeat; that moment when he and Alfred had given up hope. But then several seconds later, Dick's heart had seemed to start almost on its own. Bruce didn't believe in miracles, but _that_ had been miraculous. His gratefulness went beyond expression.

J'onn approached with their own modified visor and a set of the earphones that Crane had used during the trigger implantation process. Robin's heart rate began to increase again, as did his breathing.

"It might be easier if you lie back down," he suggested to the boy.

Robin shook his head, vigorously. "Not yet," he said, his voice becoming smaller and a bit more child-like. The trembling was back.

Batman moved onto the bed and took the boy in his arms. His breath hitched and he shuddered; burrowing deep into the man's chest. Batman held out his hand for the visor and earphones. J'onn face was sympathetic as he passed the equipment over.

"I . . . I'm s-sorry," Robin whimpered.

Batman could feel through his trembling and the tension in the boy's body how hard this was for him. His hatred for Crane somehow managed to increase.

"It's okay," he murmured directly into his ear. "There's no rush."

The boy began to calm at his words almost immediately. Batman felt unworthy of the gift of the child's trust. He had taken far too long to find the boy after he had been taken. Had he been even twelve hours earlier in his rescue, none of this would be necessary. But however undeserving he may be, he treasured the love and the trust that the child had chosen to bestow on him.

He didn't have to urge the boy to the next step. Robin released his hold on Batman, and reached for the earphones; slipping them in place. He then picked up the visor and after the slightest hesitation, slid it onto his face.

"I'm ready," he announced, holding his hand out to Batman.

Batman took the small hand in his as Robin used it as an anchor to lower himself slowly back onto the bed; continuing to hold it when the boy refused to let go. Like with everything concerning this procedure, Robin would initiate each action; Robin would call the shots.

J'onn moved into place above his head. He slid his hands on either side of the Robin's head; cradling it in his palms. "I am ready to begin," he spoke within the boy's mind, "whenever you are."

With one hand, Robin reached up and touched the small control switch on the side of the visor; activating the strobe effect. He gasped, but his body quickly relaxed as he immediately fell into a trance. Jeremy Cantor's solution was taking affect; making his mind susceptible to manipulation and suggestion.

Speaking softly to Barry, Canary, and Batman, J'onn explained everything that was happening.

"Cantor's formula is extremely powerful," he said. "Robin is already deep into the trance, and the ease with which I am able to enter his mind is quite frightening. We must be vigilante to keep it protected from those who would use it for evil.

"I must search out the area in which the triggers are imbedded. It could take some time," he warned them, at which point he fell silent.

Barry pulled a couple of chairs over for Black Canary and himself, and settled in for the duration. Batman chose to remain where he was, perched on the side of the bed, Robin's limp hand tucked into his larger one.

"I'm going to bring back some coffee," Canary announced. "It sounds as though we will be here a while."

Barry looked up. "Actually a sandwich or ten sounds good, too. Batman, do you want anything?"

Batman's attention was all for the boy, however, and the offer was ignored. Canary patted Barry's shoulder.

"Come on. We can bring him back something anyway, just in case he might want it later," she told him.

* * *

It took hours.

Through it all, Batman never moved; never let go, not once.

Canary sat nearby, her feet propped on the chair Bruce had refused to use, and contemplated the change she had seen in the man over the past couple of days.

Until then, she hadn't known the man had a gentle side . . . Well, such as it was. Despite his obvious love of the child, his protective streak was somehow far scarier than even what the Batman normally projected. She almost felt sorry for the Scarecrow. Her eyes flitted to the small boy whose hand Batman still held in both of his . . . Okay, maybe not. The madman definitely deserved the beating he had coming to him.

She was half dozing when J'onn suddenly gasped and collapsed. Although practically asleep himself, Barry reacted with predictable speed; catching the falling Martian and helping to ease him into his chair.

"J'onn, are you all right?" Canary rushed to get water for the weakened alien.

"I – Uh, yes, I believe so," he stammered. "It was much more difficult than I expected."

Batman was leaning over Robin trying to get him to respond.

"He will come out of his trance naturally," J'onn attempted to reassure his friend. "It may take another several minutes. I am certain he will feel exhausted despite that he appeared to be sleeping."

Batman stared at the Martian intently. "Did it work? Is he cured?"

J'onn's eyes slid away. "I . . . I am not sure. I have found what I believe is a network of cells; several nerve pathways that leads from the thalamus to the medulla oblongata located in the brain stem. I found what I believe is the trigger point for Batman's cowl in the thalamus. While I was unable to erase the trigger point completely, once I was able to ascertain that these pathways weren't a normal integral part of his brain, I manage to sever several of them."

"Several . . . But not all," Batman replied.

Canary blinked. Leave it to Bruce to catch that little factoid.

J'onn sighed. "No, not all. The search alone was extensive and consumed much of my energy. I do believe, however, that he would be able to see you in your cowl now without the risk of death."

"What about side effects, J'onn," Barry asked what was on everyone's mind.

"There are bound to be some," he looked apologetic. "I'm afraid it will take more than one procedure to completely wipe the trigger and erase the side effects of even one, let alone all four, but," he pause for emphasis. "I believe it is possible."

Canary released her breath. "Oh, that is good news!"

"_But_ . . ." Batman said. His gaze remained intense and focused on the Martian like a laser. "What else is there that you haven't told us yet, J'onn?"

Canary and Barry both looked at their friend. He frowned and shook his head. "It was difficult enough locating a trigger that I knew existed. I do not believe it is possible to remove an as yet unknown trigger."

_Oh no_! Canary sank slowly into her chair. "The fourth trigger . . ."

The Martian nodded, still not able to meet Batman's gaze. "Yes. The fourth trigger."

Batman moved his hand from Robin's only to lay it gently on the boy's chest; over his heart. Canary didn't think he was conscious of the move, but she was. It was a protective gesture. If only it were as simple as that.

"So, what you are saying is," Batman growled. "Robin will have to experience the fourth trigger so as to identify it before you will be able to remove it . . . _IF_ it doesn't kill him first."

There was silence for several minutes. Later, Canary thought of it as was the calm before the storm.

Batman lowered his head and stared at the still entranced child beneath his palm for long moments. When his head snapped up, a terrible rage seemed to consume him.

"_Damn it_! _GODDAMN IT TO HELL_," he roared. "I am going to track that sonofabitch down and _kill_ him!"

Everyone jumped at the explosion; even Robin twitched and grew restless, although he didn't regain full consciousness yet. All three stared at the infuriated Bat, unsure what to do or say. Canary couldn't be sure later that if anyone had moved suddenly at that moment, that Batman wouldn't have torn into them. Nobody had moved, however, as it seemed that they all felt like they were staring at a ticking time bomb.

After the danger level lowered a bit, Barry said cautiously, "Batman doesn't kill. _You_ don't kill."

Batman's gaze centered on Barry. "That doesn't mean I'm not capable of it," he growled low.

* * *

**While we all know that Batman's capable of it, and in moments of stress seriously contemplates killing; I don't believe he could actually go through with it in the end. But, then again . . . Hm. **

**Reactions? Come on! You had to know it couldn't be THAT easy . . . **

**This chapter gave me a bit of trouble. I apologize for not getting this up earlier in the day. I plan on starting chapter 39 tonight, but I don't know if I'll get it finished tonight or tomorrow. You will definitely have at least one tomorrow, however. Hope things are still exciting enough and holding your attention! **


	39. The Man Beneath The Bat

**WARNING: Some Language . . . Disturbing Scenes Ahead.**

* * *

The next day and another round, J'onn was fairly certain that Robin could handle seeing Batman in his cowl once more with little to no side effects. Barry and J'onn had returned to their uniforms, reassured that Robin's last trigger had nothing to do with them. Black Canary remained on hand, both for moral support and because she had extensive training in first aid, and could be trusted to give assistance. Batman stood in front of his protégé, and took his mask off. Everyone present knew his identity anyway.

It was time to see if their theory had worked.

Bruce felt sick to his stomach.

But it needed to be done. Robin's entire future rode on his ability to work with Batman. Dick's entire life rode on his ability to see the cowl without the risk of heart failure.

Bruce kept remembering the two separate attacks, and wondered briefly if Dick's reaction to the cowl would have been worse or better than the other two. Or was the sound of breaking glass unique in and of itself? Despite the wandering thought, he did not truly wish to gain this knowledge firsthand.

"Are you ready, Robin," J'onn asked.

The boy glanced up at the green-skinned alien and nodded. He looked up expectantly at Bruce. His lenses were up, exposing his cerulean blue eyes; an exception necessary if they were forced to perform life-saving measures on the boy.

"It's okay, Bruce. I'm ready," he said.

The slight quiver in the boy's voice betrayed his own nervousness. Bruce couldn't blame him. His own hands held a fine tremor. He smiled slightly at the child he now called 'son' in his heart, wishing he could say the word out loud just once before doing this thing. He sighed. Best to get it over with quickly, he thought.

With a final glance at the preparations made in case things went sour, Bruce turned his back, pulled the cowl from where he had tucked it in his utility belt beneath his cape, and pulled it on. It felt at once comfortable and familiar, while at the same time dangerous and enclosing. Resisting the urge to yank it back off, Batman turned around to face his partner.

The child's eyes widened and his breathing hitched. The EKG monitor recorded a modest increase in heart rate with an initial skipped beat before settling back into a slightly elevated rhythm. His respiration grew rapid, but quickly tapered off to normal. His heart rate slowed after a few more moments. They waited a little longer, but no other reactions were forthcoming. Thank God!

As far as side effects went, this one was workable.

He glanced at the others. Flash was shaking Martian Manhunter's hand; they were both smiling. Black Canary clapped her hands excitedly, and rushed over to Robin's side to congratulate him.

"How are you feeling, chum," Batman asked, once Canary had released the boy from an enthusiastic hug.

Robin took a breath, blowing it out slowly. "A little nervous," he admitted honestly. "But the cowl . . . It looks _right_. Much better than the mask."

At that moment, hell froze over . . . Batman smiled broadly, stepping over to the boy and crouching down beside him. "I'm feeling a little nervous myself, chum," he admitted.

Robin reached out a tremulous hand and touched the cowl. He bit his lip, and then met Batman's gaze; blue eyes to lenses. He laughed, as the tension flowed out of his small form; making Batman realize suddenly exactly how tense the child had been since they had gotten to the Watchtower that morning. It was only obvious now that it was absent.

Robin threw his arms around his neck as Batman picked him up. They turned to Flash and the Manhunter. Batman shifted Robin to his left so that he could thrust out his own hand to each of them.

"Thank you for all your help," he started.

"You are welcome, of course, my friend," Jon told him. "But we still have much work to do eliminating the other two triggers. It shouldn't take as long as this one did, but again, I expect it will take at least two sessions apiece."

"We'll take it, gladly," Batman told him.

At that moment the doors to the medical bay slid open. Wonder Woman took a couple of steps into the room, smiling. She looked behind her and waved.

"You were right as usual, Clark," she said. "Here they all are."

Everyone turned to look. Batman moved to shield Robin's face even as Superman stepped into the room.

But it only takes the slightest glimpse . . .

"_No_! _No_! _NO_," Batman snarled as Robin's telltale gasp sounded in his ear.

The boy's body jerked hard enough that he nearly threw himself out of Batman's arms. It was déjà vu all over again . . . The wide, terrorized eyes rounded like saucers followed by that scream!

It didn't matter how many times he heard it now, it still raised the hair on the back of his neck. He caught the boy, even as he lowered him back to the bed. Bruce yanked his cowl off and ripped open Robin's tunic.

Horrified, Superman rushed to the boy's bedside. "What's happening? Bruce?"

"Get out, Clark," Bruce yelled at him. "I can't save him with you standing there! _Get out_!"

"I don't understand! _My God_! Bruce, what's going on?" Superman was visibly shaken at the sight of Robin's obvious terror of . . .of . . . _him_?

It took Black Canary and Martian Manhunter's telekinesis to get him out meanwhile Flash attached the pads of the medical bay's AED to Robin's chest. Although he was the fastest man alive, there was no time for Flash to react to the myriad of multi-colored bruises that decorated the boy's chest, nor to what remained of the red marks that had been left by the two previous uses of a defibrillator. Batman had described it as best he could, one of these attacks, but he suddenly understood now that he lay witness to one: there was no way anyone could describe it! Not the absolute terror in the boy's eyes, not the shrillness of the horrible screams, and certainly not the swiftness of the attack – even to the Flash.

The screams gave way to the rapid gasps of hyperventilation as the monitor recorded an alarmingly fast and erratic beat. The AED called for clear. Flash and Bruce stepped back. A second later, electricity crackled its way through Robin's body. The heart fluttered, beat once, fluttered again. Bruce began CPR.

Neither man noticed the doors to the bay opening again as Canary, Green Lantern, and Martian Manhunter burst through. They halted; an appalled audience to the drama taking place in front of them.

"Hal, grab the bag valve mask and begin ventilating him," Flash yelled. "Dinah, I need three ml of epinephrine ready, stat."

The two heroes snapped into action even as Robin's body seized up.

"_NO_! _Damn it_! Don't do this to me, Robin!" Bruce was yelling at the boy. Blue eyes rolled back into his head.

"Everybody clear!" Flash yelled. A second later another charge flew through the child's body.

There was an erratic beat, two, a flutter, and then the same damned monotonous tone that shrieked through the room, telling those in range that the boy's heart had stopped. Bruce lunged back into action, pumping blood through an organ that was unwilling to do it itself.

"Please, Robin . . . _Dick_! Dick, stay with me! _Please_, God! Don't take him away," Bruce begged. Audience be damned, his son was leaving him!

* * *

Wonder Woman, an Amazonian warrior-princess, who had fought demon, aliens, and gods; who hadn't hesitated to take a life where actions had called for it, couldn't stand to watch anymore and turned her face into J'onn's shoulder for comfort.

"_Why_?" She whispered the question to her friend. "How could this be happening?"

She had never met the sidekick of Batman before, but she had heard tales of him from his mentor. She had been secretly amused by the fearsome Batman's blatant fatherly pride in his young apprentice. She had had no clue that the amazing youth had been naught but a small child; one that appeared even smaller when surrounded by four adults, three of which were large men of stature.

She knew not this little man, but for him to have garnered the love and devotion of one so grim and pragmatic as the Batman, she knew he had to be someone of great worth and even greater potential. Tears stung her eyes at the thought of the awesome toll that would come due upon the loss of this child.

She walked out of the room crying.

* * *

Superman watched through the walls of the medical bay; his super-hearing picking up every sound; every sob; every prayer. Oliver Queen, the Green Arrow, stood with him, a hand on his shoulder as if he could ever hope to hold him back; no matter how determined he may be.

"I don't understand," he grimaced. "For what purpose would Scarecrow have to use my symbol as a means to harm a child; particularly _this_ child?"

"It wasn't just your symbol, you know," Arrow told him in uncharacteristic sympathy.

Arrow, too, would have been devastated to have been used as an instrument of a child's demise, but for it to be the child of a friend? It was like some type of emotional Kryptonite, capable of crushing the spirit of even the mighty Superman.

"He used Batman's cowl, as well. Batman's been wearing a mask all week, until today. J'onn was able to undo the cowl's trigger, but he hadn't had time to do the same with all the others."

"How many triggers does the boy have?" Superman might have appreciated the words more if the child in question hadn't been fighting for his life in the next room because of him.

"Canary said there were four altogether."

Superman whipped his head around to stare at Arrow, as if his words were impossible to believe. "Good God!"

"I heard that there might have been more had not the Bat found him when he did; not, apparently, that two more triggers might have mattered in the long run when the kid wasn't meant to have lived out the next six hours." Arrow shuddered, thinking about the kid's scream; the one that had drawn every other member of the League present at a dead run.

The door opened to let Wonder Woman out and closed behind her. She walked past both men without seeing them. But then, her eyes were so full of tears that maybe she couldn't.

The dreaded sound of EKG alarm couldn't be heard through the door by Arrow, but it drew Superman's attention. The whispered prayer of the man Clark had come to see as his friend; almost a brother, followed by a hidden sob of despair. Through it all, he searched desperately for the sound of one heartbeat in particular. It wasn't there.

"He called me Uncle Clark," his voice hitched on the word, uncle.

A single tear escaped; sliding down that face that was strong enough to stop a bullet; along skin strong enough to bend a blade. What good was all of that strength if it couldn't save the life of one, bright, little boy?

"_Dick_ . . ."

It wasn't there . . .

"_No _. . ."

* * *

Dick stood off to the side. The Light shone through the medical bay's lone window as bright as the sun. So bright that he had to squint. _Too_ bright . . .

He turned his head. The spirit stood close by.

"You should have warned me," he accused.

The spirit looked panicked. He hadn't known. How could he not have known? He shook his head, holding up both hands.

Dick felt the cares of the living falling away from him. But his promise . . . His promise still meant something. Soon, even it would be gone. He didn't have time to think about it. He turned to the hive of activity behind him.

There were shouts and tears and movement, but they weren't what drew him. His eyes were all for the man he had chosen to call father. _Bruce_. His name was Bruce, he thought. Bruce's lips were moving as he worked over the small body on the bed . . . His body. But his words couldn't be heard from over the strangely muted cacophony that filled the room.

He needed to hear those words. He needed to help him. But what if he couldn't make it back? Would he forgive him, Dick wondered, if he couldn't make it back this time?

The struggle was incredible. He slogged across the few feet separating them as if he were mired in thick, hardening concrete. He could see the spirit walking beside him as if for a stroll, and Dick wondered why the Light wasn't pulling at him the same way. Does it become easier over time to ignore its call? Or does it stop calling you altogether?

He tried to grab a hold of something, to help pull himself along, but his hands would pass through as if it were thin air.

_Bruce_! He _couldn't_ leave Bruce . . . As he slowly got closer, he could see the tears falling from the man's face. They dripped on the chest of the boy . . . His chest. His hand hovered over his chest as if he could feel the warm, salty drops as they pooled on his breast bone.

_Bruce_!

Another step . . . And another.

So close . . .

So hard . . .

* * *

After Wonder Woman left the room, J'onn turned back to the boy he had spent so long trying to save from just this very thing. During the course of his search, J'onn had witnessed from the boy's eyes scenes of great importance from his life.

His first somersault on the trapeze; his first performance under the big top; the death of his parents. He saw not only Bruce Wayne's offer of a home and a life with him, but felt the boy's emotions; witnessed that moment, at the funeral of his parents, when Bruce's hand on young Dick Grayson's shoulder forged the first link of what was to become an unbreakable bond. A bond that was far stronger than most parental bonds that he had glimpsed in his time here on earth, observing humans.

J'onn took a step closer, standing next to Green Lantern as the other man continued to breathe for the boy. Was the child still there in that unresponsive body? He felt a great need to touch him and see. He reached out a hand and brushed his fingers along the boy's forehead.

He gasped upon contact.

The child wasn't in his body, but he felt him close.

J'onn turned his head and saw him; insubstantial, like a ghost.

But the boy wasn't at peace. No, the boy was in the midst of a great struggle. He was reaching . . . reaching for his body; for . . . for Batman! No, J'onn thought, for Bruce Wayne. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave.

The chain between them was almost visible, and it was stretched taut. If the child could just use it, he thought. It would anchor him in this world, and draw him back home.

J'onn opened his mouth and called to him; to Robin . . . No, to _Dick_!

"Use the bond, Dick," he said. "Grab hold and use it. It won't break!"

J'onn ignored the startled looks he drew from the others in the room. In his periphery, he saw Bruce follow his gaze to what, to him, must be a blank open space beside him.

* * *

Bruce stopped performing CPR, turned to the air next to him, and dropped to one knee. He held out his arms.

"Use me, Dick," he whispered. "Grab hold and use me!"

For a moment nothing happened. As disappointment began to rise within him, he felt a brush of cold along his arm. Seconds later, the EKG beeped.

He raised startled eyes to the Martian, and found him smiling.

The machine chirped again. The boy shuddered, his back arching as he gasped. Hal Jordan jumped back, dropping the bag valve mask, and crouched by the head of the child.

"Come on, kid," he encouraged. "Take another breath. You can do it!"

Robin gasped again, pulling hard on that life-giving oxygen; filling his lungs as the heart monitor registered an uneven pattern for several beats before it seemed to right itself, and the boy's heart found the rhythm it was searching for.

As the rhythm continued unabated, and Dick's breathing leveled out, a sigh of relief sounded throughout the room. Bruce's legs wobbled as he climbed back to his feet, and he sank down heavily on the side of the bed. He lowered his forehead to his son's, and then, after a few moments, oh, so carefully pulled the child into his arms.

He should probably care that he was weeping openly, if silently, in front of his teammates. He should probably give a moment to maintaining his hardass reputation . . . But these people had given their time and efforts to help save his son's life.

Maybe . . .

Just this once . . .

Maybe it wouldn't matter if they saw the man beneath Bat. The very _grateful_ man . . .

* * *

**Whew! This one was emotionally charged! Please, don't hate me . . . But, you _did_ remember that Superman was due back, right? **

**Okay, let's hear it . . . Reactions? **


	40. Heart To Heart

**Warning: Language . . .**

* * *

"Batman?" Clark Kent entered the medical bay hesitantly, unsure of his welcome. "Bruce?"

Batman's cowl was draped unceremoniously over the foot of the bed, so it was Bruce that slouched, exhausted, in the chair by Robin's bed. He stiffened, but didn't bother turning around. He knew that the others had explained the situation by now, and that there was no symbol present to threaten his son.

"Come in, Clark."

Clark moved into the room and sat on the neighboring bed across from Bruce. The steady beeping of the EKG that monitored Robin's heartbeat played like background music. As Clark looked at the boy, and then up at his friend, Bruce could see the overwhelming sadness, enormous regret, and more guilt than anyone should have to possess in the other man's eyes. Bruce's gaze dropped back to rest on his son; still searching for signs of consciousness returning.

"It wasn't your fault, Clark," he said. "You didn't know. If anything, it was my fault."

Startled, Clark looked up at the man he was beginning to hope was still his friend. "Your fault? How do you figure that?"

"I knew you were due back soon. In my desperation, I ignored the danger. I had hoped to have Robin . . . Dick . . . cured of these triggers before you returned. Then, it would have been a non-issue." Bruce's gaze flicked up briefly. "You were early."

Clark removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He seldom ever felt tired, and then it was usually after an exposure to Kryptonite. Right now, however, he felt as if the weight of the world was settling on his shoulders. Who knew guilt and regret weighed so much?

"Things went smoothly," he sighed. "Diana and I were excited to be done ahead of schedule, and even rushed the trip back. I don't think anyone expected us for another day at least."

"This wouldn't have happened if we had had another day," Bruce said. It wasn't an accusation or condemnation, just a statement of fact. Robin would have been cleansed of his Superman trigger by then.

"God, Bruce . . . What happened? We've only been gone ten days!" Clark leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands rubbed one another in nervous restlessness.

Ten days. It felt longer.

"Scarecrow had escaped from Arkham. He had gone to ground for a couple of weeks. Nobody had seen or heard about him in all that time," Bruce recited emotionlessly. He felt hollow inside after the last couple of hours.

"We got word eventually that he was setting up a new lab and working on some new kind of toxin. We had thought we had located it in a warehouse down near the pier on the Gotham River. The plan was simple. Robin would create a distraction, while I infiltrated the lab, took samples of the new toxin, and destroyed everything that remained."

"But . . .?" Clark glanced up.

"But . . ." Bruce laughed humorously. "But when we arrived, there were twenty-two heavily-armed men."

Clark frowned. "Too many. Robin wouldn't have been able to handle so many, would he?"

"No. No, he wouldn't have," Bruce replied. "And we knew that. While we were surveilling, we overheard some of the men talking. Crane wasn't there. Wasn't expected back for a couple of hours, at least, which made hitting the lab the safer option for Robin. I created the distraction, dropping in on the men, hoping to draw out any others that were in other parts of the building to leave an opening for the boy to get what we came for, set the charges, and leave."

He rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair as he leaned back in his chair. "It should have gone down without a hitch."

Clark shook his head. "Those damned hitches get you every time."

"I took down the men; even took my time doing it, just to make sure he wasn't rushed. Then I retreated; headed back to the rendezvous point a couple of blocks away. He wasn't there." Bruce looked at Clark, then. Superman wasn't the only one with guilt weighing him down. "I should have turned around immediately right then and gone back for him."

"But you didn't?"

"I waited for him. Not long . . . Just a few minutes; not more than five at the most. I was annoyed at first, but then suddenly my gut was telling me that something was wrong, and he was in trouble. I headed back, but the warehouse exploded just as I got there."

Clark stopped fidgeting; letting his hands dangle between his knees. "You said he was to set charges."

"The charges he had would have barely been heard even if you were standing right outside of the building when they went off." Bruce shook his head. "This . . . This was massive! The entire warehouse was practically gone. Flames were shooting up two and three stories high. I have no idea if those men I incapacitated where even still in the building when it blew. The fire chief said that if they were, there would have been nothing left of them.

"I thought that maybe Crane had had some kind of accelerant stored there, and that Robin's charges set it off. I worried that he hadn't gotten far enough out of the blast radius, but then after I searched the area with no sign of him, I started thinking the unthinkable . . . That maybe he hadn't made it out at all. James Gordon eventually came up to me. One of the firemen had found a piece of material lodged under a portion of the fire escape; a two-toned piece of black and bright yellow." Bruce sighed. "There wasn't much left of it. What there was was charred and torn."

"You thought he was dead," Clark surmised. Oh, God, that moment must have torn him apart. "How long did it take you to realize that he wasn't?"

"Ten minutes. I knew in my gut he was alive within ten minutes," Bruce told him. He met Clark's gaze. "Probably one of the worst ten minutes of my life."

"_Probably_?" Clark asked. "_One_ of the?"

"I've had a lot of 'worst moments' between then and now," Bruce admitted, shrugging his shoulders. It looked more like it was releasing tension than any sort of body language.

He leaned forward, picking up Dick's hand in his own. He had ditched the gloves a while back, tucking them in the back of his utility belt. He needed to feel the boy; feel the thread of life in his pulse, the warmth of his skin . . . Needed to know he hadn't slipped away at some point when Bruce wasn't looking.

"He should have died, Clark," he said, softly. "I wouldn't have found him in time. One of Crane's own lab assistants contacted me, told me where he was; tried to give me his notes to use to save the boy . . . He was murdered that night before he could do more than warn me about my cowl."

Clark nodded. "One of his triggers," he said. "I heard."

"If he hadn't warned me about the cowl, I would have killed Robin that night," Bruce snarled low. "That _fucker_, Crane, had him chained up in a restraint cage so small he had to curl up to fit in it. If I had activated that trigger then, I _never_ would have gotten him out in time to save his life. He would have died in there, chained up like a damned dog!"

Clark grimaced. "And then I had to go and set off it off today."

Bruce shook his head. "It wasn't the first time it has happened. Don't . . ." he sighed. "Don't beat yourself up about it. This is the third time since I rescued him that one of those damned triggers had been activated. And apparently, Crane himself activated all of them during his experiments."

"What?" Clark gaped at him. "What are you saying? That he's gone through . . . Through _that_ seven times? _Seven_?"

"I don't know why he's still alive," Bruce rubbed Dick's hand between his two. "He should have died . . . Many times over; he should have died. One time, I had even given up. I thought he was gone, even Alfred did. Then his heart started up inexplicably; all on its own. I-I have no way to explain it."

Clark frowned. "Martian Manhunter . . ."

"You saw that?" Bruce grimaced. "Huh, what am I thinking? Of course, you did."

"He saw him . . ." Clark said. "His spirit, for lack of a better word. Or maybe, his soul?"

"Did . . . Did you?" Bruce was curious about that. "Could you see him?"

Clark shook his head. "No. I didn't see him. I didn't even know to look."

"Damndest thing I've ever . . ."

"He said . . . J'onn did; that the boy was fighting to come back," Clark murmured. "To _you_," he added. "He was fighting to come back to _you_, Bruce."

J'onn had told him the same thing. Bruce didn't want to believe it, although he didn't know why. But, then again . . . He _had_ believed while it was happening, didn't he? He had actually stopped performing CPR, and held out his arms like Dick was right there ready to run into them. What had he been _thinking_?

The answer to that was nothing! He hadn't been thinking at all at the time; only feeling. And when J'onn had stared at that blank spot and started talking to Dick, Bruce had only reacted. Hadn't he?

He shook his head. Thinking too hard about it made his chest hurt.

And speaking of chests hurting . . . He looked at Dick's. His tunic was off, and the blanket was tucked under his arms; exposing most of the bruising to all and sundry. It was a mottled mess of purples, reds, greens, and yellows, but in the center were brand-new, black and deep blue bruises that Bruce himself had left behind.

Those, and a cracked sternum.

How the boy had managed to avoid having his chest laid to waste after having CPR performed on him so often was a mystery. Alfred was probably at the heart of it, though. The man was a monster when it came to nutrition. Bruce had first-hand knowledge of that growing up and still did. Lots of calcium and vitamin D for a growing boy . . .

"Do . . . Do you think . . .?" Clark stammered, bringing Bruce out of his head once more. That was probably a good thing. The inside of Bruce's head was not good place to be at the moment.

"Do I think . . . What, Clark?"

The man was staring at the boy with a pitiful lost look on his face. "Do you think he'll be mad at me . . . You know, for . . . This?" He waved a hand, indicating the child in the bed.

Bruce closed his eyes, shaking his head wearily. "No. No, I don't. Honestly, I doubt he'll even remember most of it." He opened his eyes and met Clark's. "But even if he did, I know he wouldn't blame you for it."

"Really?"

Bruce's lips twitched with the edge of amusement. The most powerful man in the galaxy needed reassurance that one ten year old boy wouldn't be angry with him . . .

"You can ask him yourself, Clark . . . So long as you aren't in costume."

Clark frowned. "Yeah, about that . . ."

"J'onn will be working on your symbol's trigger as soon as Dick's feeling up to it. There might be some lingering after effects, however, so we'll have to be careful testing it."

"After effect . . ." He pursed his lips, glancing at the array of life-saving equipment set up nearby. "Is that why everything was up and ready to go today? Because you were worried about potential side effects?"

"Yes. We were testing Robin's reaction to seeing the cowl for the first time after J'onn had removed everything related to the cowl's trigger he could find in his mind." Bruce picked up the cowl from where it lay at the foot of the bed; holding it in his hands to look at it.

"We believe each trigger has its own particular reaction when activated. All of them, we think, lead to heart failure. Certain things seem to be common throughout, but other . . . reactions might crop up depending on which trigger is flipped."

"How did you come by that," Clark asked, curious.

"Only two triggers have been activated, but while they share the screaming, the hyperventilation, and heart failure, the third trigger had some other disturbing effects." At Clark's look, Bruce elaborated. "Perforated eardrums; extensive bleeding from his ears, nose and mouth."

Clark's eyes widened. "Dear God! That had to have been terrifying!"

"I'd rather be locked up in Arkham with the Joker as my roommate than go through that again," Bruce admitted.

"So, what's going to happen after this," Clark asked.

"I . . . I don't know, Clark," Bruce leaned forward, putting his face in his hands. "I've come so close to losing him forever, and very nearly lost myself in the process," He looked up over his fingers at the small figure in the bed. "I'm afraid to let him out of my sight. How am I ever going to manage to allow him back out on patrol again?"

Clark blew out a breath through his mouth. "Yeah, there is that to look forward to . . . You know, Bruce," he said. "I've never really agreed with you about training Dick to this life, but he's good at it. Better than some adults that I've seen, in fact. What's more is the fact that he likes it – No! He _thrives_ on it! I'm ready to admit that you've proven me wrong in this. How could you take it away without crushing him?"

"That's the real question, isn't it?" Bruce brushed at those locks of hair that persistently fell forward into Dick's eyes. "And if I let him continue," he laughed to himself. " I know that I will be worse than any mother hen. I will drive the boy nuts hovering over him constantly. And let some idiot creep lay even a finger on him . . ."

"Hm," Clark nodded. "I can imagine . . . Would he make it to jail without spending the first week of it in traction?"

Bruce's mouth quirked up on one side. "There would be no guarantee . . ."

"Excessive brutality . . . Batman could be up on charges."

Bruce leaned back; the corner of his mouth quirking as he met Clark's eyes. "Not if perp was resisting arrest."

Clark snorted.

The blanket rustled as Dick became restless. Both men sat up, waiting . . . hoping. He mumbled and stirred. Bruce laid his hand on his arm, leaning in close to the child's ear.

"Dick? Can you hear me, son?"

The boy's head rolled in Bruce's direction, but his eyes remained closed.

"You're safe," he told him. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Dick sighed.

"Do you think you can open your eyes for me?" Bruce spoke loud. He wasn't sure if the ringing, which had been getting steadily better, had returned or not. He made a note to double-check if Leslie had rescheduled Dick's hearing test. "You have a visitor."

He mumbled something. Bruce looked up at Clark.

"Did you catch that," he asked the other man.

"It sounded like he said, 'Another five minutes, Alfred'," Clark grinned.

Bruce chuckled. "Take all the time you need, son," he told the boy.

Smiling now, he sat back. He was the luckiest, damned sonovabitch in the world right now. It looked like his boy was going to be okay. He looked up at the ceiling. Someone somewhere liked Dick Grayson, and Bruce Wayne was happily benefiting from that charity.

* * *

**A Bruce and Clark bonding moment . . . And a chance for you, the reader, to catch your breath. **

**Reactions? I'd really like to know if this chapter works well for the story.**


	41. Side Effect

"Are we ready?" Martian Manhunter asked the room in general.

This time, it appeared that the entire JLA roster was congregating in the medical bay. It had been suggested that the less people present, the less stressful the test would be on the child, but no one wanted to leave, and no one had the heart to make them.

Well, that wasn't quite the truth. Batman had been more than willing to start physically tossing people out, but Robin had vetoed that plan of action; allowing anyone who wished to be there to stay. The boy had a heart as big as Kansas, apparently, and Clark had gone on to confirm this.

It had been five days since Robin's Superman trigger had been activated. Both Flash and J'onn had wanted to wait longer before attempting to trace and neutralize this trigger, but Robin had been insistent that they begin sooner. Batman had agreed to allow it after the boy had rested for three of those days, and so two sessions had been crowded into yesterday to accommodate the young hero.

Batman looked at his protégé. "Well, chum, it's your call."

Robin sat on the edge of the bed, studiously ignoring the life saving equipment gathered near him. He needed another dose of painkiller, he thought breathlessly, but hated the mental confusion that tended to go with it. He didn't want to be groggy, not today!

Uncle Clark had been in to see him every day, several times a day, for hours at a time. He had brought Robin games, books, and movies to keep him entertained, and was constantly sneaking in treats to offset the meals that Alfred had insisted be sent up to him. Although Clark's fussing had allowed Batman time to pursue his investigation, it also had annoyed Bruce to no end that every time he walked into the bay, Clark was there before him.

Still, Batman was there as often, and at night, Bruce would sit with him until Robin had fallen asleep before going to bed himself in the berth next to his. And whenever the two of them were off tracking criminals or saving the world, someone else would come in to entertain him so he wouldn't be bored . . . Although, it was more like so he wouldn't be alone, in case he decided to fall over dead.

Robin sighed. He hadn't had a moment to himself for a week, and although he loved people and attention, this was getting a little ridiculous.

He worked on his balance any time he could because yesterday, Batman was still following him into the bathroom! Sure, he admitted that he sometimes needed a little help getting there and back, but seriously . . . There were times when a guy just needed a bit of privacy without someone in a cape hovering on the outside of the stall door.

Getting rid of these triggers was the first step of regaining some semblance of his independence.

"Oh yeah," he said. "I am so ready for this."

No one else would have seen it, but Robin saw Batman's lips twitch. He knew better than anyone how testy the boy had been getting, especially since Robin yelled at him this morning, and made him wait out in the hall while he finished his business.

"Okay, let him in," Batman told Green Arrow who had stationed himself at the door.

The door slid open and Superman walked in. Robin kept his eyes closed until the man of steel had positioned himself directly in front of him. Batman's hand settled on his shoulder; letting him know he was there and adding a bit of comfort.

Robin opened his eyes, and spotted the red boots. Slowly, he raised his eyes up until the red emboldened 'S' was there.

He gasped, a sharp pain stabbing him in his chest. He grimaced. The EKG monitor recorded the stutter in his heartbeat. His mentor's hand tightened on his shoulder, ready to burst into action when and if the situation called for it. Robin grunted, a hand unconsciously rubbing at his chest.

Batman crouched down next to him.

"Robin," he called to him.

"Robin," Superman asked, uncertainly.

Robin bit his lip, but shook his head. "No. I'm okay . . ."

After a moment, the pattern returned to a normal rhythm if also at an accelerated rate, and his rapid, shallow breaths slowed, but that was only because he willed it so. The pain in his chest remained, but eased into a dull ache. The fear, however, continued to hover there; fluttering, beating at the back of his mind like some kind of demented butterfly.

When a single tear escaped, his mask was there to absorb it, but it had not escaped the Batman's notice. He jumped up, cutting off Robin's view of Superman, swirling his black cape around his shoulders.

"Enough. Superman, go," he ordered brusquely. Then, as if rethinking his words, he looked back over his shoulder and amended. "Go change, and come back."

Clark flew out of the room so fast that the door almost didn't open in time. Flash and Black Canary moved in as Batman returned to his crouch, gripping Robin's arms gently.

* * *

"How are you doing, chum? Talk to me," Batman was speaking, but with Bruce's voice. "What's going on?"

Robin looked down at his lap. Batman could feel the tremors that wracked his small body. He sniffled, and a fat tear plopped onto the back of the boy's hand.

"There were side effects," Robin whispered, dejectedly.

Batman glanced back at the heart monitor. Robin's heart rate was still a bit fast, but not alarmingly so.

"What effects are those," he asked.

"Chest hurts; hard to catch my breath," he recited dully. "And . . . and . . ."

Batman dipped his head to better see the boy's face. "And what, son," he asked.

"I . . . I'm _scared_," he whispered. His face crumbled. "I'm sorry. Tell Uncle Clark, I'm sorry."

"This isn't your fault, Robin," he told him. "You have nothing to feel sorry about."

"I want to try again," Robin said. He raised his gaze to meet Batman's lenses. His blue eyes were wet, but no less determined. "I can do this!" His lip quivered, and he ruthlessly bit it to stop the involuntary motion.

"If all it took was will power, Dick, you would have had this licked a long time ago," Batman replied softly. "But no more today. Perhaps J'onn might give it another go tomorrow, and we can try again."

When a tiny bead of blood appeared on his lip, Batman stood up, and glared at those still lingering. Clark had come back and was standing off to one side. Guilt swamped the man's features.

He repeated Robin's words to them in a growl. "There were some side effects. We'll try again, maybe tomorrow. Right now he needs to calm down and rest."

People began to file out with words of encouragement; "It's okay, you can beat this,"; "Just a setback, Robin,"; "No worries,"; "You're a real trooper,"; "Tomorrow's another day,"; "You've got this, kid," all intended to give the boy hope.

"Uncle Clark?" Robin called him in a wobbly voice. "Can you stay? Please?"

As the door shut, leaving the two men and the boy alone, Bruce pulled off his cowl and turned back to his son; picking him up. He helped the boy take off his mask as well. No sooner had this been accomplished than Robin buried his face in his guardian's neck. Seconds later he began sobbing.

"I'm sorry," he cried. "I'm sorry!"

Bruce rubbed the boy's back, murmuring words of comfort in his ear. Clark, guilt and sympathy fighting for dominance on his face, moved behind Bruce and ran a hand over the boy's head. After a little while, Robin looked up miserably, and held out a hand to him.

"Don't feel bad, Uncle Clark," he told him through his tears, hiccuping. "It's not your fault. I know that it's just a symbol, and there's nothing to be afraid of, but I can't seem to help it. I try, but I just can't . . . I'm sorry!"

"It's okay, Dick," Clark reassured him.

"Dick," Bruce said. "You need to try to calm down. This isn't good for you."

"But I _am_ _trying_," the boy wailed.

Clark looked at Bruce, worriedly. "How long is this supposed to last?"

"Unsure," Bruce answered. "Look, there's nothing you can do here right now. I'm going to continue to try to calm him down, but tell J'onn we need to try again tomorrow. This is unacceptable."

Clark nodded. He ran his hand through Dick's hair one more time before leaving.

Bruce sat on the bed, and for wont of something to do, anything to help, he began to rock the boy. After a few minutes, he remembered something his mother used to do to comfort him when he was frightened or upset. He glanced at the door hesitantly. This would totally crush his reputation if anyone happened to come in.

Dick shuddered, and tried to burrow deeper into Bruce's arms, his weeping continuing unabated. Bruce sighed, held him tighter, and began to hum . . . then to sing.

Baby mine, don't you cry  
Baby mine, dry your eyes  
Rest your head close to my heart  
Never to part, baby of mine

Little one, when you play  
Pay no heed what they say  
Let your eyes sparkle and shine  
Never a tear, baby of mine

If they knew all about you  
They'd end up loving you, too  
All those same people who scold you  
What they'd give just for the right to hold you

From your hair down to your toes  
You're not much, goodness knows  
But, you're so precious to me  
Sweet as can be, baby of mine

By the time he had finished the song, Dick's weeping had stopped. He thought he might even be asleep, but when he looked down, the boy was awake, but quiet; calm, his breathing almost normal.

"Better now," he asked.

Dick looked up at him, and nodded. "I didn't know you could sing," he said.

"I'm not sure what I just did would constitute singing," Bruce said, the corners of his lips tilting up in wry amusement.

"I liked it," Dick blushed, ducking his head. "It helped. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Bruce rumbled. "But if it's all the same to you, Dick, let's just keep this between us."

The boy giggled. "Batman's reputation is safe with me."

"Good," Bruce sighed.

* * *

Clark leaned against the wall outside of the medical bay doors, smiling.

He had listened to the boy's heartbeat return to normal, his breathing slow, and his tears dwindle away as the song went on. So, when J'onn and Flash came to check on the boy, he reassured them that Batman had everything under control, and sent them away. No one outside of the medical bay could hear Bruce singing . . . except him.

Batman's reputation was safe with him, too.

* * *

**This is what came to mind (and wouldn't leave) when I was trying to come up with a way for Bruce to calm Dick down from his anxiety attack . . . But it's okay. Batman's reputation as a hardass is still safe with me as well!**

**Reactions? **

**The lullaby "Baby Mine" was written by Ned Washington (lyrics) and Frank Churchill (music) for the 1941 Disney movie, Dumbo. I thought it was perfect (Dick loves elephants!). Oh, and btw, I don't own this song, either.  
**


	42. Clash

**Sorry this took me so long. I wasn't able to get onto my account all day to post.**

**Warning: Language . . . **

**Still don't own any of the characters; still wish I did. (SIGH)**

* * *

Another session with the Martian Manhunter . . .

He had searched for the trigger he had all but demolished a couple of days before. A hint of it remained, as had the one for the cowl. As hard as he tried, that hint, that little bit wouldn't go away; not completely. He checked again for any hidden pathways that he might have missed and found two. He doubled checked them to make certain that they were not natural to the boy before severing them. He took time to search out what was left of the cowl trigger as well. The boy had had a very small reaction to Batman's cowl, hardly anything really, but a reaction all the same. It took some time, but there it was; one last hidden pathway . . .

Oddly enough, this took nearly as long as one of the regular sessions he discovered once he had returned to his own mind. Green Lantern and Flash helped him to a chair as Black Canary handed him some bottled water. He glanced over to the boy. He appeared to be sleeping to any uninformed observer, but it was the remnants of his trance.

Batman, minus the cowl, sat diligently by his side; Clark, in civilian garb, was looking on nearby. Behind J'onn, he had felt the presence of Green Arrow and Wonder Woman when they had visited earlier. Aquaman, he knew had stopped by to give the boy encouragement before leaving to attend monitor duty in another part of the Watchtower.

The feeling of good will and hopefulness permeated the room. It was impressive, really, he thought, the way the boy had so quickly burrowed his way into the hearts and minds of the other members; completely effortless on the child's part. All were fond of the boy they had only met a few short days ago, and growing fonder. Concern for his welfare was paramount in their minds; an instinct in the species to protect their young, he had noticed and admired. It gave him hope and was part of what had brought him to this world; part of what made him wish to fight for humanity despite the fact that he was forever outside of it.

* * *

Bruce waited for Robin to come out of his trance. He was Bruce because the cowl still caused Robin considerable discomfort. The boy handled it well, but he still flinched ever so much every time his eyes landed on it. So, when Bruce was amongst those he trusted, he left the cowl off.

"What happened, J'onn," he asked. "Were you able to discover what was still causing the side effects?"

The Martian looked up from where he rested, his mouth curving up into some semblance of a smile. "Yes, I believe I did. The pathways were small and well-hidden. But I have severed them, and also went back to the cowl's trigger and discovered another pathway there as well that I had originally missed. Robin shouldn't have any discomfort looking at you in full costume anymore," he said.

That was a relief! Bruce looked behind him at Clark. Mild-mannered, News-reporter, Clark's blue eyes looked relieved behind his glasses.

"We'll still need to test it," Bruce said. "Just to be sure. And there are still the third and fourth triggers that will need to be dealt with."

J'onn frowned. "The fourth trigger will still be a problem, you realize," he warned. "Until I know what it is, I won't be able to find it."

Bruce pursed his lips, thinking. "What if there was a way to generalize what you are doing individually? If nothing else, to stop the heart attack or slow down the attack altogether, so as to give him enough time after the final trigger is activated to get medical treatment? As it is, the reaction is so fast that unless someone follows him around with an AED device, epinephrine, and CPR certification, he is in as much danger from the last trigger as he was from all four together. He needs to have some semblance of a normal life!"

J'onn thought about that for a moment. "That is an interesting concept. I will think on it. However, my friend, you must also keep in mind that it will be something that cannot be tested until the final trigger is activated. There will be no way of knowing whether this generalized . . . down-grade of the fourth trigger would be successful until it happens."

Flash shook his head. "That feels too much like playing Russian roulette with his life. If it doesn't work or doesn't work well enough . . ."

"What would you have me do, then, Flash, because I am open to suggestions," Bruce growled out.

"Catching Scarecrow might be an option," Green Lantern spoke up.

Bruce stood up slowly; anger practically oozing from his pores. "What the hell do you think I've been doing every time I leave here," he snarled.

Clark moved between the two men. "Bruce," he murmured, low.

"Hal, it might be a good idea if you just didn't speak right now," Canary told him, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the exit.

"Look, if you want, I could go and search him out for you," Lantern suggested. "How hard could it be to find this one guy?"

"I would let you try it," Bruce sniped, "except we would be right back here having to locate and eradicate your own blasted trigger at the end of it all."

"Hey!" Lantern frowned. "I've handled the likes of Sinestro whose power ring thrives on fear. Scarecrow could hardly compare." Lantern cracked his knuckles. "It'd be like going on vacation for me."

"Hal!" Canary began pushing him out the door.

"Hm, it might be worth it just to be able to watch you snivel like a little girl," Bruce narrowed his eyes at his teammate as he reconsidered Lantern's idiotic offer.

"Think on it, Bats," Lantern urged with a smirk. "One weekend in Gotham, and you and the kid could take time off to go to the beach or something."

Canary stopped shoving him to slap him in the back of the head. "Now would be a good time to eat your ring, flyboy."

"I would videotape it," Bruce snarled. "We could watch it on movie night. I'd supply the popcorn."

Lantern frowned at Canary, but turned back to Bruce. "In fact, maybe having a grown-up for a partner might enable you to actually accomplish something in that freakazoid town of yours for once."

Bruce's hand slipped down to his utility belt.

"Hal, shut up," Flash told him, stepping forward to place another barrier between them. "Bruce, try to remember, you don't kill."

Green Lantern laughed good-naturedly, finally turning to go. "Seriously? As if . . . You do remember that the guy has no powers!"

Bruce stepped forward, bumping forcibly Clark's shoulder with his own. "Stay out of my city, Lantern," Bruce warned him with a growl and a glare, "or it won't be Scarecrow you'll have to fear."

As the door shut behind Green Lantern and Black Canary, Flash whistled. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut it with a knife.

"Wow," he said. "And here I always thought it was the cowl that made you scary."

* * *

On the other side of the bay doors, Canary punched Lantern across the jaw; rocking the man's head with the force of it.

"Damn," he complained. His hand went up to hold his jaw as he moved it around. "What the hell, Canary? What was that for?"

"After the week he and Robin just had?" Canary gaped at him. "And you go and try to bait him! What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Come on," he frowned. "Even you have to admit I have a point."

"On the top of your head, maybe," she sniped at him. "I don't get you, Hal. I thought you _liked_ Robin."

"Yeah," his face turning serious. "That's just it. I do like him. He's a tough little bird! He's got a lot of spunk."

"So, why are you insulting him, and in front of his father, no less," Canary glared at him.

"I thought that Bats was his guardian," Lantern said.

"That's just the official title, Jordan," she waved a hand. "You've seen him with the boy. That man in there is nothing if not his father. Now quit changing the damned subject and answer my question."

"You just did," he told her. "He's a boy! A child, for God's sake! He has no place in this business."

"He's not just any child, Hal," Canary replied, crossing her arms. "He's been trained by the best, and Batman is always there to watch out for him."

"Uh huh, and we've all seen how that's turned out," Lantern snarked.

"Have you even seen Robin in action," Canary asked.

"No," he returned. "And neither have you."

"I don't have to," she said. "I've seen Batman in action. I've watched him prepare for battle; make contingency plan after contingency plan. If he thinks Robin has what it takes, then I believe him. I trust what I see in his face when he looks at that boy to know he would never risk Robin's life on a whim, or let him out on the streets of Gotham if he wasn't capable of holding his own."

Lantern turned and walked away. "What he's doing to that kid should be a crime. In fact," he called back to her over his shoulder, "I fairly certain it is."

"Stay out of this, Hal," she warned. "It won't end well for you . . . Or likely for any of us."

* * *

"Your self control has always impressed me," Flash commented, "but never more than today."

"Green Lantern is an idiot." Bruce narrowed his eyes at the door, but after a moment his hand slid away from his belt, and he returned to his place at Robin's side.

Clark stood staring at the wall that separated the medical bay from the hall beyond, a troubled look on his face. He was silent when he turned back to the room at large.

It only took a minute to for Bruce to determine the change in boy's breathing pattern. He was beginning to come out of his trance. He looked up at J'onn. The Martian had stayed out of the confrontation, and for that Bruce was grateful.

"Whenever you feel up to it," he told the alien, "I would like for you to tackle the third trigger . . . Sometime today, if possible."

J'onn's gaze traveled to the increasingly restless form on the bed. "You do not think that it would be too stressful on the boy?"

"Considerably less stressful than having that trigger activated if Lantern and I decided to have a go at one another," Bruce grimaced. "And I want to take him home. I would prefer it if I didn't have to bring him back in another day or two just to finish this up."

Flash frowned at what remained unspoken. "It's okay to bring him back, Bruce. Robin will always be welcome here."

"You'll pardon me if I remain skeptical," Bruce sat down on the bed, keeping his gaze focused on his boy.

"Bruce . . ." Clark began.

"I don't want to hear it, Clark," he snapped, and then sighed. "At least not right now." He nodded at the boy beside him. "He's starting to come around."

Bruce looked up at the hero-cum-news reporter. "Later," he promised. "Later we'll talk."

* * *

**Hm, Green Lantern may have a point, but then so does Black Canary . . . This COULD be an issue.**

**Reactions to this?**

**I hope the story still continues to be interesting for you. I am seeing at least 11 more chapters or so to finish this up. Still lots of things to happen and more excitement to come. Chapter 43 should be posted Sunday evening. Working night shift over the weekend, and I need first to sleep so that my words don't resemble gibberish.  
**


	43. Shattered

**A great, big Thank You to everyone who has been following the story. We reached 10,000 views today!**

* * *

Two down, the third trigger followed. It had taken the rest of the day, and Bruce had called for an end. Both J'onn and Dick were exhausted. Now, early the next morning, they had gathered to test the third trigger for side effects.

Of the two triggers that had been activated, it was the most disturbing; the most devastating physically for Dick, and emotionally for Bruce. He still woke up gasping and sweating when the nightmares came, which was nightly. So far, he hadn't woken the boy up. The child had enough trouble dealing with his own bad dreams; he didn't need to worry about Bruce's as well.

There were fewer people present for this test. Bruce refused to allow more than the four JLA members he trusted the most into the room; Martian Manhunter, Flash, Black Canary, and Superman. It was the first time since the initial testing for Robin's second trigger that Clark had worn his costume while visiting the Watchtower. Everyone had paused when he had entered the room, watching Robin anxiously for signs of anxiety, fear or panic.

"Hiya, Superman," Robin had chirped enthusiastically when Clark had stepped through the door clad in his customary blue and red uniform. Not even a flicker of his previous upset remained.

Clark's sigh of relief had practically ruffled the child's hair. He was so pleased he had flown the short distance to Robin's bedside. Flash was busy applying the last of the wires to the heart monitor. There was a slight increase of heart rhythm, that had everyone's eyes riveted on the pair, but it was quickly discovered that it was merely Robin's excitement at seeing Superman floating that had caused it.

"That must be so great," he said in awe, "To be able to fly without cables or ropes or even a trapeze bar."

Clark beamed at his favorite fan. "It is," he agreed. "And when you are feeling up to it, and if Bruce agrees that it is okay, I'll take you for a ride. How's that sound to you?"

The boy's eyes were as big as his grin. "Oh, my gosh! That would be . . . amazing!" He turned to Bruce. "Please, can I go?"

Bruce narrowed his eyes at the big, alien lug, but he was nodding. He smiled down at his son. "As soon as you are cleared," he promised. "But only a short ride at first, and not too high. You don't need to have to worry about the low oxygen levels that you find at high altitudes just yet."

"Really?" Robin squealed in his excitement, throwing his arms around his surrogate father's waist. "Thank you, Bruce! You are the greatest dad ever!"

Bruce didn't have to look to know that every eye was now on him. Dick had usually kept his new penchant for calling him dad to private moments. To hear Robin refer to him this way had apparently startled his teammates. When he eventually looked around, however, only Canary's eyes were suspiciously shiny. The males present avoided looking directly at him, although all wore ridiculously sappy grins on their faces.

He would need to have a talk with Robin about the appropriate places and times it was safe to refer to him as such. The last thing he needed was an enemy realizing the extent of Robin's importance to him. Of course, this was the Watchtower, but in Bruce's mind, it wasn't much difference. But his own physical reaction to the title had Bruce stopping to pull on his cowl, if only to ensure his emotional privacy.

"Er, so you've said," Batman muttered, uncomfortable. "How are you feeling, Robin? Are you ready for the test?"

Robin nodded, swinging his dangling feet back and forth over the side of the bed.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I'm feeling fine."

His happiness seemed to dim the tiniest degree when Bruce slipped on the cowl. He seemed to realize that his inadvertent comment had made his guardian feel awkward in present company. His enthusiasm settled down, but nothing could stifle the child's need for movement. But it pleased Batman to see it. It meant that the boy was feeling better, and his energy levels were returning to normal finally. This, along with Robin's improved balance, was just more welcomed proof that he was healing up nicely.

"Well," he growled, his voice automatically lowering an octave with the cowl's addition. "Let's get started, shall we?"

The equipment was all ready, although Batman had high hopes that it would continue to remain unneeded. Everyone moved into positions that would enable them to leap into action should the worst happen without getting into one another's way. Canary handed Batman a piece of fine crystal, one he had brought from the manor, and that hopefully Alfred wouldn't notice was missing for at least twenty-four hours.

The man had a sixth sense about these things, however. He doubted the man would protest overmuch when he understood what it was used for, but the Bat-computer would likely see many hours logged as the elderly retainer searched the globe for its replacement. Antique Austrian crystal in this particular pattern would likely be difficult to locate. Batman might complain about his Cray supercomputer's power being used in such a manner, but he knew it would be nothing but a token protest. He had never been able to withstand the butler's own version of the batglare; not at seven, nor again at twenty-seven.

Superman handed him a bag, and Batman placed the crystal in it; twisting the top shut so that no shards would accidentally fly out and hit somebody. He looked back at Robin, and the boy nodded at him with only the slightest hint of nervousness. That was only because he couldn't remember what had happened to him after the third trigger had activated. Batman could – only too well.

He took a breath, bent a knee and swung the bag against the floor; smashing the delicate glass within. It sounded loud; the bag doing nothing to muffle the crackling, tinkling, shattering sounds of broken crystal. His gaze leapt to Robin's face.

* * *

To Robin, the noise made by the breaking glass sounded explosive; like a gunshot next to his ear. He yelped in surprise; physically jumping at the sound, his hands automatically reaching to protect his ears, his eyes wide. The steady beat of the heart monitor leapt as well, his heart rate racing.

Batman dropped the bag immediately, and grabbed his shoulders. Although the cowl hid his expression far better than the mask had, there was no mistaking the look of fear now.

"Robin!" He cried.

The ringing had returned, but it wasn't so bad that Robin couldn't hear what was going on around him. The high-pitched whine was background noise. There was a stinging pain in his ears, but although it was uncomfortable, the boy thought it was tolerable. His breathing was fast, but he wasn't hyperventilating either. While his heart was pounding, his chest didn't hurt.

Batman was laying him back on the bed; his hands scrabbling at his tunic. Robin let go of his ears and grabbed Batman's hands, stilling them. He was still panting, but he could speak.

"I'm fine," he told him. "I'm fine . . ."

Batman lifted a hand to his cowl, flicking up his lenses so that his blue-gray eyes could meet those amazing blue ones of his child. He turned the boy's head and touched a gloved hand to his ear. A drop of blood stained the black leather. It wasn't the amount that had so alarmed him before, but a thin trickle nonetheless.

"No," he said. "No, you're not fine."

His voice had lost its growl; lost its deepness, became Bruce's voice again. Always disconcerting to hear Bruce's voice coming from the Bat. Robin reached up and peeled the mask from his face, uncaring of who was in the room. Everyone present knew Bruce was Batman; it stood to reason they also knew that Dick Grayson was Robin.

"I am fine," Dick told him, carefully controlling his breathing; slowing it down. "I'm not scared. I can control my breathing. I can control my heart rate," he said.

And he was. By forcing his lungs to take slower, deeper breaths, his heart rate followed suit by dropping back to a normal, if still slightly elevated speed. While the initial sound had scared him somewhat, the fear didn't remain. It was the normal startle reaction to an unexpected, or in this case, expected, loud noise. Without the unreasonable fear beating at him, Dick felt as though he could handle anything.

"You're bleeding!"

Batman's voice not only didn't sound like Batman, but it was starting to not sound much like Bruce either. There was a panic there that tweaked Dick's memory. Dick pushed Batman's hands away and sat up. Immediately blood trickled from his nose. Not a gusher, thank God, but annoying all the same.

"Batman, it's just a nosebleed," Robin said, wiping the blood from his upper lip.

"It's not," he insisted. "Your ears are bleeding, also."

Superman moved closer. He peered at Robin for a long moment, and then put a hand on Batman's shoulder.

"I can see a few arteries in Dick's middle ear that are hemorrhaging, but it doesn't appear serious. They are already beginning to clot," he reassured his friend. He is startled, however, by the terror he sees in Batman's exposed eyes.

The effect didn't last long. Dick's ability to control the reaction mitigated the worst of the potential problems.

* * *

"I-I thought . . .," Batman stammered. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. "I th-thought you . . ." He took a deep breath and flicked his lenses closed. He turned to room at large, ignoring their stunned, concerned expressions.

"This is unacceptable," he stated with a faux calm. He didn't feel in the least bit calm, but if he faked it long enough, perhaps he would discover it. For an instant, however, it was as if his nightmare had returned, that horrible night, and his heart had shattered along with the crystal glass that currently lay forgotten on the medical bay floor.

J'onn nodded, not taking his eyes from the Caped Crusader. "I will see what I missed as soon as Robin is ready."

"Right now," the Boy Wonder said, replacing his mask now that Batman was back in control. "I'm ready right now." He didn't want the others to see his worry.

"J'onn will be a while. Why don't we go get a cup of coffee," Superman suggested. He pushed Batman forward; slowly true, but not leaving his friend much choice without making a scene.

"Fine," Batman muttered. He cast one last look at the boy, as if to reassure himself that Robin wasn't about to collapse as soon as he walked out of the room. "I'll be back in a few minute, Robin." To Canary, he said, "Stay with him until I return."

He left with the Man of Steel without another glance.

* * *

**Reactions? **

**Bruce had been having nightmares about this particular trigger ever since it had been activated. Of course, it felt as if his heart, his entire world had shattered for a few minutes. And who didn't love that "Dad" moment in there?**

**More tomorrow . . . Same Bat channel!**


	44. Hard Feelings

**My work schedule has screwed up my sleep, and thus my brain has been functioning at low power levels. I figured you would prefer quality over quantity and wouldn't mind waiting another day. Although I will still strive to maintain a chapter a day for you until the end of the story, there may be a day in between on occasion. Anticipation can be a good thing . . . Really! . . . Honest! **

**Warning: Language . . .**

* * *

Batman followed Superman through the Watchtower to the kitchen to get coffee. He knew that Clark had something on his mind, and thought he knew what the coming conversation would consist of. He wasn't looking forward to it. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to grab Robin and go home. It was a mistake bringing him here. Although he couldn't think of another alternative; it was still a mistake.

He felt the eyes of his teammates on him, and he wondered if the big, blue Boy Scout had brought him out for a reason other than coffee and a little male bonding. Batman prayed that J'onn would be done quickly. Robin needed to go home. Alfred hadn't seen him for several days and the man was fit to burst with the need to coddle the boy.

"So, how do you take your coffee, Batman," Superman asks as he picks up a cup.

"Black," he deadpans, "like the night,"

Flash's head suddenly appears over the top of the refrigerator door where it had been buried when the other two men walked in. "Wait! Did you just tell a _joke_?"

Clark laughs as he pours a mug and hands it to Batman. "That sounded more like a Robin joke."

"Don't be ridiculous," Batman told him. "Robin's jokes are considerably worse than mine."

Two of the fastest men on earth catch sight of a rare smirk; gone almost before it is formed. The tension in the room eases by several degrees. Flash whips out enough ingredients to make a dozen sandwiches in a couple of seconds. He's shaking his head in disbelief.

"If I hadn't been here, I never would have believed it," he says. "Are you telling me there is a sense of humor beneath that cowl?"

Superman smirks. "I'm fairly certain that it remains safely buried beneath the Kevlar. Tell us, Bruce, would it explode into a ball of fire if sunlight hit it?"

"Only moonlight," he states calmly, nursing his mug. "The sun has seen its share." At two nonplussed stares, he shrugs. "It's been known to happen . . . on occasion."

In another instant, Flash is suddenly standing before a baker's dozen of turkey sandwiches. The counter is cleared of mess. He slides two of the sandwiches across to the other men.

He remembers the Batman he had first met him a couple of years ago. For that man, Flash would have sworn it was an impossibility. He eyes the hero in front of him . . . One might have thought the two men were the same person, but Barry decided that he would have been wrong. The Batman he had bore witness to during the past week was not the same as the one he had first met. He had changed . . . For the better.

* * *

"We need to talk."

The three men turn to see Wonder Woman enter the kitchen. Behind her is Green Lantern and Green Arrow. The tension returned to the atmosphere with a vengeance; almost suffocatingly strong. Superman stepped between the three new people and Batman.

"Now is not the time," he told them.

"And when would it be time, Superman? When we're attending the kid's funeral," Green Arrow remarked, angrily.

"Robin's _not_ going to die," Clark frowned. If he didn't de-escalate the situation soon, he was afraid this 'discussion' would turn into a free-for-all. "Martian Manhunter and Flash are doing everything they can to prevent this."

"And we're succeeding," Flash informed them. "Robin's first two triggers are completely neutralized, and J'onn is, even now, eradicating the third."

"That isn't the point," Wonder Woman said. "The point is that Robin needs to retire from crime-fighting – permanently; before something worse happens to him."

"_Permanently_?" Batman had been quiet up until this point. "What gives you the right to make this sort of decision for him?"

"Okay, not permanently, maybe," Lantern groused. "He can do whatever the hell he wants once he reaches his majority, but the kid won't live to see adulthood if you continue to put him into danger!"

Batman stepped around Superman, and pointed at Green Lantern. "Don't pretend you care what happens to him, Lantern," he growled. "You don't have any idea what you are talking about. Robin is more than capable of handling himself. I'd trust him with my life."

"That's the problem right there," Arrow pointed at him. "The fact is that you put him into the kind of situation that would endanger your life without consideration to the fact that whatever endangers you would also do the same to him! We're supposed to be the _adults_!"

"Some of us are adults," Batman snarked. "With others that term is debatable."

Arrow ignored this. "As adults, we understand the kind of risks we are forced to take, and agree to them. A child like Robin shouldn't be forced to have to haul your ass out of the fire when doing so might just as easily kill him!"

Superman put his hand on Batman shoulder when he moved forward. It wouldn't do to let these two get in each other's face; not that distance would mean a thing, not with an archer's arrows and Batman's batarangs. It said something that Clark wasn't actually restraining the Bat, only touching him. Batman was restraining himself. Lantern and Arrow had no idea how lucky they were that Bruce had incredible self-control. Unfortunately, when the topic was Robin, that control was severely tested.

"I would _never_ knowingly place him in danger," Batman snarled at them.

"But it happens, Batman," Wonder Woman pleaded with him. "You cannot control every situation. Eventually he will get hurt. Eventually he could get killed. If you removed him from crime-fighting completely, he would be safe."

"You act like there isn't danger lurking around every corner, Diana," Batman told her. "Robin could just as easily die slipping in the shower; on the drive to school; playing sports with his friends . . . At least, when he's with me I can watch out for him; protect him!"

"Batman's right," Superman interjected. "You don't know the circumstances surrounding the boy's induction into crime-fighting."

Green Lantern glanced at the other hero. "And you do?"

"I know the story, yes," Superman nodded once. "Robin's creation was inevitable."

"The boy said he is ten years old," Arrow said, waiting for confirmation.

"He is," Batman told him.

"And he's been Robin for how long," Arrow asked.

Batman's eyes narrowed. "A little more than a year." He knew where the archer was going with this. He always knew that the boy's age would be an issue.

"So, he was _nine_, is that right, when he first started fighting criminals?" Arrow stared at the man, incredulous.

"I don't have to justify Robin's existence to you or anyone else, Arrow," Batman growled.

"Perhaps you should," Green Arrow growled back. "Are you seriously considering allowing that child to go back out onto the streets again, after all this? In Gotham City, no less?"

"Whether I do or I don't, is no concern of yours," Batman answered.

Of course, this was exactly the question that had been going around his head for the past week, but what happens to Dick's alter ego was a subject that concerned only him and the boy. He resented the implication that he wasn't concerned for the child's welfare and that his so-called allies thought that they could intimidate him into making a decision that they supported – All so that they could go home and sleep a little better at night.

"But it does concern us, Batman," Wonder Woman insisted. "You brought this child to us. You made him our concern."

"And while I appreciate the League's assistance in helping me save him, it doesn't give you the right to tell me how to raise him," Batman gritted out.

"So, he _is_ your son," she inferred.

Batman was silent for several moments. Even Superman was looking at him, now. He knew that Bruce was only Dick's court-appointed guardian, but he had witnessed in just the past few days a difference in Bruce's relationship with the boy; one that seemed to finally make the leap over that gap between guardian and father.

"He is," Batman finally ground out. "You will _respect_ that. And you will leave the boy be."

With that, Batman shoved his way past them, actually pushing Green Arrow as he stalked out of the kitchen. Whatever brief glimpse of the human beneath the cowl and Kevlar was gone; disappearing as if it never existed. Flash picked up three of his sandwiches and walked out.

"Excuse me," he said. "There are sandwiches over there, if you want them. I've lost my appetite."

* * *

Superman emptied his and Batman's mugs in the sink. He felt torn. He understood both sides of the argument. It was one he and Batman had had a year ago when Robin had first donned the cape. He hadn't liked it, but he had accepted it; respecting the man's decision despite their disagreement. He knew Robin's story, and he also had the privilege of knowing the child himself. He understood why Bruce had allowed the boy to join his crusade. He wondered if his teammates knew the whole story if they would still insist upon trying to force Batman's hand in this.

He feared that all they might accomplish would be alienating the man completely. God only knew what would happen to the Justice League if that were to happen. Superman knew that they needed Batman to make this venture work in more ways than one. Besides the man's tactical genius, he owned everything in the Watchtower and the satellite itself. No one else in the group, except maybe the Flash, knew that the Watchtower had been built and funded by Bruce Wayne through Wayne Tech; one of Wayne Enterprises subsidiaries.

He didn't think Bruce would be so vindictive that if he left the League's roster, he would take his money and his toys and go home with them. But then again, his vindictiveness had spurred him to give up his life in order to wear a bat suit and chase criminals. Perhaps if this particular issue hadn't involved Robin . . . but unfortunately it did, and one didn't question the man's loyalty and parenting skills when he so obviously loved the child. This wasn't going to end well.

* * *

Batman stalked into the medical bay to see the Martian Manhunter sitting beside a groggy Robin. The boy was sitting up, something he hadn't been able to accomplish after previous sessions. He was growing stronger; good.

"What can you tell me, J'onn," he asked brusquely.

J'onn shook his head. "I cannot say for sure without another test, but I feel confident in saying that his reaction to the sound of breaking glass should be much less severe than what we witnessed earlier."

Batman scowled. "Much less? Meaning that there may still be the possibility of a bad reaction?"

"A startle effect," J'onn assured him. "Similar to what he experienced earlier, but far less severe. I believe that there should be no more issue with spontaneous arterial hemorrhaging in his middle ear. However, if it does present a problem, I would be happy to attempt another session in an effort to mitigate the effect."

"I'll let you know," Batman told him before turning to Robin. "Do you feel up to going home now or do you need some more time?"

Robin was frowning up at him. "I am more than ready to go home," he said. "But shouldn't we test it first?"

Batman hesitated.

Robin moved to his knees, frowning. He was awake now. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

Batman made an effort to calm down. He didn't want to alarm the boy. "Nothing's wrong," he said. "I just have a lot to do. I've been neglecting Gotham for too long and Alfred has been anxious to see you, not to mention Leslie wanted to check you over and see how you've been improving."

Robin watched him rambling with a suspicious look on his face.

J'onn also was watching him with interest. It was unlike him to want to put off testing the boy. "I am sensing a lot of anger and hostility in the Watchtower. I assume the others decided to confront you about Robin's continuing his career."

Batman's head snapped around, and he glared at the Martian. While he didn't want to create a rift that might prevent him from continuing to help Robin, he refused to be blackmailed into making a potentially emotionally-devastating decision about the boy. He would leave the League before that happened.

"Wait! What is this about me?" Robin looked back and forth between the two heroes.

"Careful, J'onn," Batman growled. "You don't want to be on the wrong side of this argument."

J'onn stood up, moving slowly so as not to startle the man. He sensed an unusual amount of stress radiating off of him, and the Martian worried the Batman temper might be on a hair trigger. He was much taller than Batman's own six foot two frame, and it would be very easy to loom, but the alien knew even without telepathic inquiry that it wouldn't have the correct effect on the man as it might on another.

"I wouldn't allow my personal feelings in the matter to sway my dedication in helping Robin overcome the effects of the Scarecrow's experiments. My personal opinion about what happens after this will remain just that; personal. It is not my place to instruct you in how best to raise your child."

Some of the tension in the room eased away, but not all.

"Thank you for that, at least," Batman nodded.

"Someone is telling you how to raise me?" Robin stood up on the bed in an effort to gain attention to his questions.

"It's not that, chum." Although that _was_ pretty much the gist of it. "Some of the other members have recently expressed concern about your welfare. They were wondering if it might not be better if you stopped being Robin for a while; until you're older."

Robin's mouth dropped open, and Batman made a note to teach the boy on how to maintain a poker face.

"How much older," the boy asked.

"Until you reach adulthood," Batman said.

"_What_?" Robin took on a more aggressive stance. "I hope you told them to mind their own damned business!"

"Robin!"

The aggressiveness morphed into agitation. "Sorry, Batman," he muttered. "But I still hope you told them."

"Yes, that is pretty much what I did,"

Batman eyed the boy. His balance looked good. It might be time to begin training again; a light, modified routine that wouldn't place undue stress on him. He was growing far too restless, and Batman didn't want it to reach a level where the child would be tempted to try some of his old acrobatics before he was ready and injure himself.

"Is that why you are in such a hurry to go home?" Robin sat down on the bed and reached for his boots.

For currently sporting a memory that resembled Swiss cheese, the child could read him like a book. Hm, Batman narrowed his eyes. He couldn't help but wonder if there was any connection between Dick Grayson and Detective Gene Harlow somewhere buried in dusty annals of their ancestry. Shrugging off the thought, he bent down on one knee to help Robin with his other boot.

"They won't kick you out, will they?" Robin suddenly asked in a whisper. When Batman looked up at him, he continued. "If I continue to be Robin, would they throw you out of the Justice League?"

"If it comes down to that, Robin, I will quit the Justice League," Batman told him quietly. "They won't need to throw me anywhere."

When Batman bent his head to finish lacing up Robin's boot, a small hand on his shoulder made him pause and glance back up into the boy's worried face. "They can't _make_ you, can they?"

He frowned. "Make me what, chum?"

"They can't force you to make me give up being Robin, can they?"

Batman felt his jaw tighten. "No, they can't. And they'd be in for a hell of a fight if they tried." He paused. "Don't repeat that word," he said. "Alfred would have both our hides."

The worry didn't leave Robin's face as he had hoped it would. Instead, the boy threw his arms around the Dark Knight's neck, giving him a tight hug; one filled with numerous emotions that Batman felt ill-equipped to deal with at the moment. He was anxious to get home, all of a sudden. He wanted to snatch up his son and go – _now_!

Despite the fact that Robin could probably walk to the zeta-tubes now, Batman indulged his need to hold the boy, and picked him up. He was grateful that Robin allowed it. The boy was becoming more and more independent with each passing day, as the trauma of his captivity retreated slowly into the background. The safer he felt, the more he wanted to return to his pre-captivity routine.

He turned to the Martian; his hand out-thrust. "I cannot thank you enough for all your help; yours, Flash's, and Canary's. Tell them goodbye for us."

"You will be back, won't you," the alien inquired. "There is still the fourth trigger we must deal with."

His grip on his son tightened subtly at the reminder. "Yes, I am aware. Perhaps we can continue this in the Batcave. I'll be in touch."

"Please do," J'onn smiled. "I've been thinking on your suggestion about doing a general 'downgrade' in an effort to mitigate the deadlier effects that the fourth trigger poses."

"You think it might be possible, then," Batman said. The thrill of hope filled him.

"I think it might be," 'Jnon nodded. "I will let you know when I might be ready to attempt it."

"Please do," Batman said. He turned then on his heel and left; taking his boy with him.

It was past time to go home.

* * *

**Reactions?**

**Oh, and the joke was found in a fan-drawn cartoon that I saw posted on Tumblr. It was too good to pass up.**


	45. Finding Lydia - pt 1

**Here you go, as promised . . . For those of you who haven't kept up. The original Ch. 45 was merely a head's up that I sprained my wrist and was taking an few days to get this chapter up. I didn't actually change the story here at all. I'm liking this one and hoping you do, too! Happy Reading!**

* * *

"I think we may have found her, sir," Alfred told him as soon as he and Robin stepped out of the zeta-tube.

Batman set Robin down as he pushed back the cowl, keeping on hand on the boy's shoulder to make certain he wasn't light-headed.

"Are you all right," he asked Robin.

The boy swayed a little, but otherwise kept his balance. "Yeah, I'm good. This was a lot better than the other time when it made me sick." He looked at Alfred. "Hi, Alfred," he said. "Who are you talking about?'

Instead of answering the boy, the butler looked at Bruce, so it was Bruce who answered him.

"No one you need to worry yourself about, chum," he smiled. "Why don't you go change while I take a look at this?"

Robin looked back and forth between the them, suspecting a conspiracy between the two of them was being perpetrated on him. As his thoughts had cleared greatly over the past several days, it didn't take him long before he connected the dots. He paled so quickly, that Bruce made him sit down on the floor.

"It's _her_, isn't it? The mean one . . . _Lydia_," he said, his voice dropping down to whisper her name. His eyes looked huge and lost.

At the look in his eyes, Bruce felt the hold on his control slip ever so slightly. He pulled Robin into his arms. The child's arms slid around his neck, and Bruce felt the tremors that seemed to make his body vibrate with fear.

"You _are_ going to arrest her, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am," he promised. "She won't get away with what she did to you. Now, I need you to go change your clothes and hang up your Robin uniform."

"The search results are on the computer, Master Bruce," Alfred informed him. "I'll help the lad change in the meantime."

Bruce watched the two head off towards the changing room. He waited until they had disappeared through the doorway before moving to the computer. Bringing up the search results, he stared at the photo of the woman. The screen was split with one side bearing the composite he had made while the other bore the DMV photo and bullet points of the woman's life. His composite photo was nearly identical to the real woman.

He had found her; the woman who had assisted Scarecrow in experimenting on his son, the woman who had apparently enjoyed hurting him for her own sick pleasure. His eyes narrowed as he memorized her face.

She had long, dark hair; slightly wavy. Dark eyes that held traces of humor, but no light; as if she would enjoy seeing you bleed out. Bruce blinked, rubbing his eyes. He hoped he was not projecting his feelings about this woman on her. He needed to see her for what she was, not what he expected her to be.

High cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and a strong jawline along with olive undertones bespoke an Indian heritage or perhaps an American Indian ancestor not far in the past. The paleness of her skin told of long days inside . . . In a laboratory? Maybe in a classroom? Her mouth was well-formed and wide, but he could see traces of tension. She was not pleased about something when this photograph was taken. Bad day? Or bad life? He would soon find out.

He deleted the composite, and moved her photo to the other side of the screen. Her information filled the left side.

Lydia Owens-Shaw

Gender: Female; Age: 34; Marital status: Widow.

Hm. He wondered what had befallen the ill-fated Mr. Shaw, and if his wife might have had anything to do with it.

Occupation: Biological Psychiatrist. Employment status: Unemployed.

Last Place of Employment: University of Arizona.

Arizona? No wonder it had taken so long to find her. Bruce brought up another window, and hacked into the employment records of the university; searching for information on one Professor Lydia Owens-Shaw. It took all of two minutes to bring it up. The University of Arizona needed to update their computer security, he decided. But then again, he thought smugly, so did the FBI.

Date of Hire: June 18, 2010. Date of Termination: March 14, 2013.

She was fired mid-term.

As he read, the story became clear. Harlow had been correct in his theory that she would have been fired for unethical behavior. Apparently, Professor Owens-Shaw was conducting secret experiments on students without obtaining approval or permission from the university. Three of the students required medical and psychiatric care two weeks into the experiment; one student committed suicide. The details of the experiment were sketchy, but told him enough. Short of going to Phoenix personally to search departmental records and perhaps conducting a few interviews with the professor's ex co-workers, he would learn nothing more about the experiment on here.

But there was one glaring clue from what few details were included, however. The experiment supposedly created physical symptoms from exposure to chemically-induced emotion; in the case of the four unfortunate students, the emotion had been fear.

When had she shown up in Gotham? It meant another search, so he opened a third window and set the parameters. Search out any airport or bus records of a Lydia Owens-Shaw leaving Phoenix. It was non-specific, in case the professor came to Gotham via another city. If she did, he wanted to know where she might have gone first before coming here. It might be someplace she would return to if she were worried about the authorities . . . Or about Batman. If she was as intelligent as her information was suggesting, she should be very worried about Batman.

He opened another screen and began searching for utility records for one Lydia Owens-Shaw. Now that he had a name, an address should be forthcoming.

A gasp behind him had him turning around. Dick stood in the middle of the cave in a t-shirt and jeans and bare feet, wet hair plastered to his forehead; staring at the screen with owlish eyes.

"Master Dick, come back here," Alfred ran out of the changing room only to stop abruptly; towel dangling forgotten from his hand. "Oh dear," he muttered.

If Bruce had questioned whether or not this was the Lydia he was searching for, Dick's reaction would have put those doubts to rest. The boy walked slowly toward the computer, his eyes never straying from the photograph displayed on the screen. He stopped when he bumped into Bruce's leg; leaning hard into his side. Bruce lowered his hand to the boy's shoulder, and felt his trembling.

Although he didn't need to ask it, he wanted clarification. "Is this her," he asked softly.

Dick didn't reply, but his tremors became quakes. Bruce kneeled next to his son. "Dick, answer me, please. Is this Lydia? Is this the mean one?" He had to physically turn the child's face away from the screen, so he could look at him.

Watery, cerulean-blue eyes met his. One slight head nod was all it took to loose the tears hovering on the boy's lashes. Slender, yet muscular arms slid around Bruce's neck and tightened into a death grip as Dick's sobs tore at his heart. He wrapped his arms around the boy as his gaze met that of Alfred. The elder man's stiff, upper lip was nowhere to be found as he, too, was overwhelmed by the child's emotional turmoil.

When the child began to regain some semblance of control, Bruce asked him gently, "How was she mean, Dick? What did she do that made her mean?"

Dick shuddered and burrowed as deeply into Bruce's embrace as possible. "Sh-she . . . She made e-everything hurt," he whispered into Bruce's neck. "Not as much when other people were around, b-but when sh-she came by herself . . . I-It was w-worse."

"How was it worse, Dick," he asked him. He needed to know the extent of this woman's crimes against his son.

When Dick whined, Bruce nearly let it go. The boy was too traumatized still to withstand this line of questioning, and truthfully, he was no longer sure he wanted to hear the answers anymore. Just the possible answers Dick could give him scared him.

"Sh-she . . . enjoyed it, then," he said. "When she came a-alone, . . . Sh-she . . . liked what she did."

"Sh," Bruce hushed him. He didn't want to know anymore; not now anyway. While it was possible that his imagination was worse than the reality, he thought it would be better if he didn't know exactly what she had done to his boy until _after_ she was remanded into police custody.

"J-Jeremy tried to m-make it better," Dick told him. "When sh-she came a-alone, he would always c-come after her. S-so, she didn't have much t-time to do th-things . . . At least, m-most of the time."

Bruce swallowed. "What kind of things . . . No! Wait! Don't tell me yet. There is time for us to talk about this later, Dick. And we _will_ talk about it. I don't want there to be anything hidden between us, son. You don't have to deal with this alone. I'll always be there to help you."

Dick was nodding when the computer pinged, letting them know the results of one of his searches was in. He followed as Bruce went and pressed the button that would bring him the answers he wanted; a list of utility companies all with the same address for the same customer; Lydia Owens-Shaw.

5693 Sandler Court, Briar Ridge . . . _Briar Ridge_, he thought. _What a coincidence_.

"Are we going to arrest her now," Dick asked; his tears now dried. He was still looking at the computer screen but the fear was gone; replaced by determination.

"_We_ aren't going to do anything, chum," he said. "Batman is going alone."

Dick was shaking his head in consternation. "_No_," he cried. "Not alone! It could be a trap! Dr. Crane might be there! Please, Bruce, take me with you . . . As backup. I wouldn't have to go in. I could wait in the car. If you turn on your communicator, I can listen in in the Batmobile, just in case you need me."

"Dick, no! I won't have you anywhere near them right now," he told him sternly. "Besides that, you are not physically up for the challenge at the moment. I cannot do the things I need to do if I'm worried about you."

"_Ple-ee-ease_, Bruce!"

"I said _no_, Dick," Bruce repeated again, louder this time. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll call someone for backup."

"Superman?" Dick asked hopefully.

"More like a police detective I met recently," he told him.

Having Harlow around for the interrogation might be useful, he thought, _if_ Harlow didn't insist on bringing Lydia into the station for it. Batman would have to feel him out first. Harlow had bent the rules for him several times already; it wouldn't be fair to expect him to continue to do so. Harlow seemed like a straight arrow for the most part, and honest cops were hard to find; in Gotham, at least.

"Bullock?"

Bruce looked at Dick, surprised. "You remember Detective Bullock?"

Dick froze; frowning in concentration for a moment. "Um . . . Yeah," he said, looking up at Bruce in surprise himself. "I think I do. A big guy that looks like a . . ." he glanced back at Alfred. "Looks like an unmade bed!"

Bruce laughed and Alfred smiled. That was exactly how Alfred had once described the police detective; as looking like an unmade bed! Dick remembered something new! Amazingly enough, something relaxed slightly inside of him at this tiny thing . . . His son was on the mend!

"Yes, that is a very good description of Detective Bullock, but no, that isn't the detective I was referring to. This man's name is Detective Harlow. He doesn't dress like wrinkly bed linen. He is, however, very, very good at reading people and between the lines, and making the right connections."

"Does he like you better than Detective Bullock does," Dick asked, concerned.

"He once offered to buy me some pie," Bruce smiled. "I think he likes me well enough."

Dick's head tilted; a puzzled look crossing his face, but he didn't ask the questions Bruce could see behind his eyes.

"You can see that I will be perfectly fine," Bruce said, pressing his point. "Robin stays home! Robin is grounded from patrols, in fact, until further notice."

"_What_?" Dick balked. "That's not _fair_!"

"I believe we've had this conversation before, young man," Bruce pursed his lips, placing his hands on his hips. "Life isn't fair. But despite what you think, I am being _quite_ fair. Robin will not fly unless Leslie gives you the okay. We need to know that your heart hasn't been damaged by all of these attacks. There will need to be stress tests done to see if you can return to crime-fighting without risking your life needlessly. And before any of that can be accomplished, you must heal first. Remember, this last time fractured your sternum."

Dick frowned unhappily. "It was only a _little_ fracture," he muttered, even as he rubbed a hand over his chest unconsciously.

_Only a little fracture_!

Bruce stifled a laugh, knowing Dick wouldn't appreciate it. It was things like this that made him realize that Robin would always need to fly. There was no keeping the boy down! Alfred had called him resilient, but resilient wasn't even half of it. Perhaps if the JLA could see him like this, they might understand what Clark had told them; that Robin's creation had been inevitable. And it wouldn't be stopped now either; it couldn't be stopped! Bruce could see right now that it was only a matter of time before the boy rejoined him for the nightly patrols. Like before, Bruce had no doubt, if Robin wasn't allowed to join him, he would simply find a way to go out on his own.

"I will tell you all about it when I get back." With that, Bruce ruffled the boy's hair as he moved past him. He had a couple of things he needed to do before he could go; one of them being to contact Harlow.

* * *

Dick watched Bruce walk away. He looked over his shoulder at the woman who sometimes haunted his nightmares. How could he go back to being Robin if he couldn't even face _her_? He wouldn't deserve to wear the mask if he couldn't conquer this unreasonable fear! Remembering some of the things she had done, however, didn't make the fear seem all that unreasonable to him. But the Batman wasn't scared of anything, he thought. If he wanted to be worthy, then Robin couldn't be scared either!

"Master Dick," Alfred said, not unkindly. "Why don't you go upstairs to the game room? You can practice a little hand and eye coordination while I whip up something for you to eat. Leslie said you can progress to fruits and vegetables now, and I made a nice vegetable soup for you."

"Sounds good, Alfred," Dick smiled, not wanting to hurt the elder man's feelings, but he wasn't interested in eating at the moment. "Thank you. Um . . . Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Dick?" Alfred turned to look at the young sir.

"I'll be up shortly. I want to wish Batman luck and watch him leave, and then I'll have some soup. Is that okay with you?"

Alfred looked at him silently for a long minute. Then, nodding, he replied, "That would be fine, sir. I'll bring your soup in half an hour?"

"Yes," Dick smiled. "That sounds good."

He watched the butler as he moved back up the stairs to the manor. Once he disappeared, Dick moved back to the changing room. Bruce had moved around the corner to another part of the cave; probably to restock his utility belt. Dick was fairly certain this was a ritual before every patrol or mission. Some items would be removed to be replaced by others that Batman deemed more necessary or critical to whatever patrol or mission he foresaw happening. In this case, Dick suspected he would be adding in the antidote to Scarecrow's fear toxin.

It was a race against the clock as Dick threw off his clothing and climbed back into his Robin's uniform. Peeking around the door, Bruce still wasn't in sight. Robin's mask in his hand, Dick ran to the batmobile. He hit the remote on his belt to unlock the trunk. There wasn't a lot of room in there, but he refused to turn back now.

He could hear Batman's voice talking to someone. It was probably that detective Harlow Bruce had told him about. Taking advantage of Batman's distraction, Robin leapt into the trunk and, as carefully and as quietly as possible, pulled it down until it clicked shut.

He would face Lydia, and then he would be worthy of being Robin again.

* * *

**Apologies again that this took so long to get up! The good news is that my wrist is merely sprained . . . No fracture! So, I will rub some dirt on it and suck it up, and get out the next chapter to you as quickly as I can. I thought I would get a little farther into the story than I did with this chapter, so Finding Lydia will be a three-parter. Don't worry - I promise that it will be worth the wait! Not done with the exciting stuff - Not by half!**

**Now then, to the important stuff: REACTIONS? **


	46. Interrogation - Finding Lydia pt 2

*****This is the 2nd part of "Finding Lydia" (Remember I took out the Head's Up chapter 45 and replaced it with the REAL chapter 45: "Finding Lydia") If you haven't read chapter 45: "Finding Lydia" first, then go back before reading chapter 46: "Interrogation - Finding Lydia pt. 2".*****

**WARNING: Very BAD Language . . . (Some words more than others.)**

* * *

It was early evening; the sun had just dipped beyond the horizon when the Batmobile pulled into the quiet cul-de-sac. He recognized Harlow's vehicle parked across the street. He was getting out of his car, waving to the people in the houses and showing his badge as a warning to stay in their homes. Batman glanced around him, and saw numerous shadows peeking curiously through their blinds and draperies.

They were parked near the entrance of Sandler Court, many yards and houses down from the one they were looking for so as not to alarm the occupants. They didn't want to give Lydia, and Crane if he were here, the chance to escape or use their fear gas. Harlow met Batman in the middle of the street.

"The house we're looking for is the yellow one at the end of the street on our left. Someone's home, at least. Would you like me to go around the back or take the front?" Harlow said in lieu of greeting.

"Probably better that I take the rear," Batman replied. "I would like to take a look first to see where in the house the woman is located and see if Crane is present as well. If he is, we might be able to wrap this up tonight."

Harlow snorted. "Is anything ever easy?"

Batman sighed. "It hasn't been for this case." He warned Harlow with a hand on his shoulder. "She is a murderer. Lydia Owens-Shaw shot and killed Jeremy Cantor that night at the veterinary clinic. We must assume she is armed and very dangerous." He paused. "Robin called her the _mean_ one."

Harlow's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Over the Scarecrow? Holy . . . Wow! Okay, then . . . I'll be prepared." He unhooked his holster.

"We want her alive for questioning." Batman eyed the gun. "Robin still has one trigger we know nothing about."

Harlow winced in sympathy for the kid, and nodded. "Right. Shoot the knees . . ." At Batman's look, he smirked. "Sorry, cop humor."

"Hm," Batman moved toward the darker area of the street, avoiding the street lights. He tossed a small communicator to the detective. "Get closer, stay out of sight, and wait until I contact you to approach the house from the front."

* * *

Harlow caught the radio, but when he looked up, Batman was gone. He paused a minute to see if he could locate movement in the shadows, but saw nothing. He shook his head and grinned, impressed.

"Damn . . . He's good." He laughed softly as he moved into the shadows himself.

He had no illusions that he possessed a shred of the Bat's ninja stealth, but he gave it his best shot and hoped no intrepid house owner mistook him for a burglar. For a couple of yards he entertained himself by humming the theme to Mission Impossible, before turning silent. He felt a little ridiculous waiting in the shrubbery for Batman's call, but one did whatever the job demanded, and was grateful he wasn't required to wear a cape while he did it.

* * *

After a long moment, the trunk of the Batmobile unlatched. It only opened an inch, and stayed that way for several long moments while its occupant checked the area for the presence of others. Slowly it eased open far enough to allow a small shape to slide out and onto the pavement. He pressed down on the trunk just enough for it to latch shut. He didn't want some curious bystander to do a little bargain shopping considering the back had such dangerous items as C-4 explosives, tear gas, and smoke bombs in its interior.

He stayed crouched behind the vehicle, wrapping himself in his cape to stay hidden. Last thing he needed was to be spotted by Batman. He knew without saying that if he were discovered, Batman would stop everything to take him home . . . Or at the very least, cuff him to the inside of the Batmobile and take his utility belt to make certain he stayed put.

Peering around the back bumper, he saw someone making his way clumsily through the bushes toward the end of the street. _Not Batman_, he determined in a millisecond. That must be his detective friend, Harlow. Robin grinned as the faint sound of humming reached his ears, happy in the knowledge that the ringing in his ears had finally faded away. It had only taken two weeks . . .

_This guy is humming his own theme song?_ _Oh, Detective Harlow is awesome_! Robin liked him already.

He had memorized the address to Lydia's house. It should be at the end of the street, the same direction as Harlow was taking. He could just follow the detective and make it easier on himself, he decided. Robin moved out, quickly disappearing into the shadows. While he preferred the rooftops, the sky wasn't dark enough and the street lights made it too easy to be spotted. Thankfully, his ninja skills were a little better developed than Batman's friend.

* * *

Batman checked out the house searching for heat signatures. Only one occupant was visible. He couldn't tell from here if there was anyone in the basement, however. He spotted a window leading down, but he was too large by far to enter the house from that way. _Through the back door it is, then_, he determined.

"Harlow, I'm going in the back door now, quietly," Batman spoke softly into the communicator. "Only one person is in residence. Get her attention through the front."

"Will do," came the reply.

Pulling out his lockpicks, Batman bent to his task. Middle income housing didn't have much in the way of security. The door was open in ninety seconds. The chain gave him pause. It would give immediately with one well-placed kick, but he didn't want to alert the occupant of his presence yet. He pulled out his mini laser torch. It took fifteen seconds. He was walking into the laundry room as the front doorbell rang.

Rustling sounds indicated movement, and then the sound of the front door being opened. Batman moved into the hallway, pausing at the juncture that led into the public areas of the house. To his right was the dining room and kitchen, to his left the living room.

"Mrs. Owens-Shaw," came Harlow's voice.

"Can I help you?" A woman's voice.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am," Harlow said politely. "But I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions for me."

A gasp. Harlow must have shown her his badge.

"It can either be here in the comfort of your home, or we can go for a ride down to the station," he told her. If Harlow was being the good cop, then Batman was happy enough taking the bad vigilante role.

A banging noise told him that she tried to slam the door shut on the nice detective. Running footsteps in his direction . . . Batman stepped out. A dark-haired woman barreled right into him, and he grabbed her by her upper arms. Another gasp told him he might have used a little too much strength doing so. Well, she could sue him, he thought as he walked her backwards at a rapid pace and practically threw her into her elderly LaZboy recliner.

She immediately tried to get back up, but Batman placed his hands on either arm of the chair and violated her personal space by a lot. His nose nearly touched hers before she sank backwards away from him as far as she could go.

"What do you want," she asked in a hiss. She didn't like him, but she wasn't afraid of him either.

Not yet anyway.

"Where is Scarecrow," he growled low.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she bit out. "I know my rights! You cannot force your way into my house without a warrant."

"_He_ can't," Batman indicated Harlow with a nod of his head.

She glanced over to see the detective leaning his shoulder idly against the door frame. Her eyes flicked down to note that his feet were planted solidly on the outside of the threshold.

"_I_ can." His growl brought her gaze back to him. Her eyes narrowed as if with enough effort she could see the eyes hidden by the white lenses.

Batman felt the rage and hatred for this woman bubbling in his gut. He eased away enough of his iron control to allow it to enter his expression. Some might think it hard to express emotion when only your mouth and jaw was uncovered, but for Batman it was an art form that he had perfected long ago for certain criminals that needed that little extra edge to make them spill what he wanted to know.

"Dr. Crane," he snarled into her face. "Where is Dr. Jonathon Crane?"

When her lips remained sealed, her eyes defiant, Harlow murmured from his spot. "I have no problem taking this all down to the station. Nice, cozy interrogation room, comfortable wooden chair, black coffee that is not quite yet a day old . . ."

Her eyes flicked back to the Bat. "I don't know where he is," she smirked.

"He plans to sell that concoction he gave Robin. I want to know when," he leaned in; looming over her. "I want to know where."

"What makes you think that he told me any of that," she asked, lifting an eyebrow. "I'm just a peon in his game; a mere lab assistant."

"I know exactly what you are, Dr. Owens-Shaw." Batman bared his teeth. "And so do a lot of other people in Arizona. You didn't stick around to answer the charges there, did you? I'm fairly certain that Phoenix would welcome you back, just in time for your trial."

Her eyes narrowed. "No charges were ever . . ."

"That boy _died_," he reminded her.

"That was ruled a suicide. There is no proof . . ."

"There is _always_ proof. They are ruling it an assisted suicide and you with as an accessory to murder. And then there are the other charges from the families of the other three students that had to be rushed to the hospital after a mere two weeks into your illegal experiment." Batman allowed his mouth to quirk up on one side. "But then again, they will want to wait their turn since you are being charged here with the shooting death of Jeremy Cantor."

"That would be murder in the first, ma'am," Harlow supplied helpfully from the doorway.

"_NOOOO_!" A familiar scream came from outside.

_Damn it_!

Batman swung around just as Robin leapt past Harlow and came to a skidding halt in the middle of the room. His eyes were covered, but Batman knew what they looked like beneath the lenses; wide, tear-filled, and tormented! He has spoken often and fondly of the other lab assistant. He had been the kind one; the one who had comforted him, the one who had helped rescue him by sending for Batman. He hadn't known that Jeremy had died that night, and Batman hadn't wanted to tell him until he was stronger; better able to take the awful news.

"You _killed_ him?!" His voice was high with distress. His hands hovered over his utility belt.

"Robin, _no_," Batman told him. "_Stop_!"

Harlow had finally stepped into the house. He was allowed now. He was behind the boy, and attempted to move in closer.

Robin's hand darted to his belt suddenly and he threw his Batarang, but it was off to the side. Batman looked as the rope from the Batarang spun around the legs of Lydia, taking her down as she attempted to flee the scene now that everyone's attention was off of her.

Batman stalked over to the woman, and dragged her to her feet none too gently. He didn't bother untangling her legs, but merely dragged her back to the recliner; tossing her back into the chair hard enough to set it rocking. He looked back at his young partner.

"I thought I made it perfectly clear that you were to stay home," he ground out.

_Good God, what was the boy thinking_? _How did he get there_? But he began answering his own questions even as they popped into existence in his head. He wasn't thinking, obviously, to have ignored the danger of coming out with the fourth trigger hovering over his head like the sword of Damocles! He knew the boy had seen the address on the computer screen, but it would have still been difficult to have arrived here without the Batmobile . . . Of course! He stowed away in the Batmobile, likely in the trunk. Batman himself had driven him here!

"_She killed him_!"

It was obvious the child was overcome with his emotions. He was not ready to be out on the streets again, let alone confronting a woman who was responsible for torturing him during his captivity.

"We will _talk_ later about you ignoring direct orders," he promised. "In the meantime, if you wish to stay, you will get yourself under control and step aside. Otherwise, you will wait in the Batmobile."

Batman didn't have to see his eyes to know they were darting back and forth between him and the woman. He waited to see what the boy would do. Although he would prefer to banish him to the relative safety of the Batmobile, Robin was already here, and Batman would rather not dictate an action that would lose the boy respect in the eyes of either the detective or the woman. It was important to the future of Robin that both law enforcement and criminals alike see him as Batman's full partner, and not a helpless child. But to do that, Robin, himself, needed to act accordingly.

It took him a moment, but his breathing returned to normal, and he shrugged, walking over to a wall and leaned against it. His expression wasn't happy, but neither did he look ready to commit a little murder and mayhem. Batman returned to his interrogation.

Robin's presence was going to be a problem. She refused to look at him, preferring to watch the boy rather than pay him any heed. The smile she wore made him want to choke the life out of her.

Batman stepped into her line of sight. He leaned in as he had before, using his height and bulk to loom over her. His hand came up to grip the back of her long hair, and he used it to position her in an uncomfortable position; her head and neck angled to face his above her, her weight supported by his hand despite her seated position.

She grunted, and her gaze reluctantly returned to his.

"Where and when is the auction being held," he asked, snarling.

Her eyes slid away again, attempting to search out Robin over his shoulder. Her obsession with the child was beginning to royally piss him off.

"It wouldn't take much to snap your neck," he whispered seductively in her ear. "Just one quick movement of my hand."

_Ah_, he thought, satisfied. _There it is_ . . . _the fear_. _Not so much fun on the other end of it, is it, bitch_?

She wasn't from Gotham City. She likely had heard little to nothing of the Batman, except in relation to his JLA activities. She didn't know that he didn't kill. But he would let her know that he wanted to . . .

"But you probably don't fear death, being that you're so fond of dishing it out," he crooned softly. "So maybe a little lower." He adjusted his grip; less hair and more neck, lifting her up again just enough that she would feel the pressure stretching the vertebrae.

"Y-you wouldn't . . ." she stammered. He could see the worry there.

"Right here," he said, tweaking his fingers just a bit.

She gasped.

"You would never walk again; never feed yourself, unable to even scratch your nose," he murmured. "_Anyone_ could just walk up and . . . _hurt you_, and you would be unable to defend yourself. Helpless," he whispered. "Hopeless . . .

"Worse even than if someone **_chained_** you down in a **_cage_** _AND TORMENTED YOU ON A **WHIM**_!" His voice rose during the last sentence until he was yelling into her face.

"No! Stop," she cried out.

Harlow straightened from where he leaned near the door, but made no move in her direction. His eyes flew to Robin. Batman wouldn't do anything horrible to the woman in front of the boy, surely . . . _No_, he thought. _I can read people too well. I would certainly be able to tell if Batman were about to carry out his threats_. Although, he couldn't hear most of what was being said.

"Tell me where and when the auction is being held," he snarled mere inches from her face. He tightened his grip on the back of her neck.

"Okay, all right," she gasped. "Just stop, please!'

Her gaze went to Harlow this time. Batman didn't look behind him, but determined the man didn't appear to be in a helpful mood as Lydia seemed to slump in his grip.

"Where? When?"

"Th-the Belmont Theater on Riverside. Just outside of downtown Gotham," she told him.

Harlow perked up. "The Belmont Theater was closed up nearly twenty years ago," he said. "It's been condemned for the past couple of years, but the city hasn't bothered tearing it down yet because the rebuilding project for that section of town was put on hold indefinitely after the fire that tore through those new apartments a couple of blocks away." He nodded. "That would be a mighty fine place to hold an illegal auction . . . If the place didn't fall down around your ears in the process."

"_WHEN_?" Batman roared. His fingers clenched painfully.

"Saturday!" she cried out. "Ten o'clock in the morning!"

Batman gave her a harsh, abrupt shake.

"I SWEAR," she screamed. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!"

Harlow stepped over and looked down on her, disgusted. "Lady, I don't think He's in the mood to listen to you. I, however, am prepared to do just that."

"I'm not done, yet, Detective," Batman growled.

* * *

Lydia looked like she was, however. She was weeping now; her nose running. Harlow grunted and shrugged; walking over to stand near Robin. He wanted to see how the boy was holding up.

He looked like he was the same age of his Sam, around 8 or 9 years old, maybe. He looked, if possible, even smaller in person than he had in that glimpse seen in the news footage a few months back. His Sam had a stockier build even, although Robin's uniform did nothing to hide his definite musculature. The kid likely didn't have an ounce of fat on him.

Robin looked up at Harlow, curiously, but his gaze quickly returned to the scene playing out in front of him. Harlow had to hand it to him, though, his focus was like a laser beam, and although he noted some fidgeting, the kid hadn't moved from his spot. The boy had gained admirable control of his emotions with but a few words from his . . . mentor? Partner? Father, he decided, no matter what the Dark Knight had let slip the other night. Whatever their status was by blood, Harlow knew family when he saw it.

There was tension there, to be sure, but Robin was nearly as hard to read as the Batman was. If he hadn't seen that little outburst earlier, though . . .

"Crane gave Robin four triggers . . ." Batman was saying. Harlow returned his attention back to the action.

"Have you figured them out yet?" She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

Harlow frowned at this sudden reversal. She had been terrified a minute ago, but now she sounded like she had somehow gained the upper hand. He straightened and moved around to the side. He wanted to stay out of her direct line of sight to not detract from whatever intimidation tactics Batman chose to use on her, but he needed to see her if he wanted to learn whatever it is she was still hiding.

The tension that appeared in Batman's face looked tight enough to break the man's jaw. His free hand fisted and the hand that held her neck looked ready to snap her in half. Harlow stiffened, just in case he needed to intervene, but not . . . yet.

Another cop might have stepped in already, but Harlow could see the iron control the man had over himself. Sure, he was noticing the tiny cracks in it, but damn, who wouldn't if it were the woman who had tortured his kid. Harlow doubted he would have been half so strong had it been Sam in Robin's place.

"_Tell me_ . . ." he snarled. "What is the fourth trigger?"

"Or what," she asked. "You'll break my neck?"

"I'll _kill_ you," he growled low through gritted teeth.

She turned and looked at Harlow. "You heard him threaten me, officer. Are you going to let him murder me in cold blood?"

"**_TELL ME_**," He roared in her face, shaking her.

"I want a plea bargain. I want a lawyer," She ground out, pain evident.

_Damn it all to hell and back_! Why did she have to bring him into this now?

Batman was breathing heavily; his hands shaking under the strain that would have felled another man, another father. He glanced over at Harlow.

Harlow frowned, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he thought. He knew she knew what information Batman wanted. She gave up the other information readily enough, but then it might have been possible to have discovered it from another source. They still had custody of the fourteen men taken from the abandoned vet clinic; one of them might have given the info up. So it was likely that Lydia was unwilling to get hurt because she had no real leverage.

But now . . .

How many people knew what Robin's triggers were? Cantor was dead, so that left Lydia and Scarecrow himself. Harlow had never had the occasion to meet the Scarecrow before; he had no way of knowing if Crane would crack or not. But Lydia seemed to believe she held all the cards here now. She believed that Crane would never crack. If that was actually the case, then she was the only one with the knowledge to help the boy.

Harlow scrubbed a hand over his short hair in frustration.

All right, he had given Batman his chance. Now it was time to take her in. She wanted to plea bargain, then they would plea bargain. She might not get the time she deserved, but . . . Wait!

If they could extradite her back to Arizona . . . He smiled. The southwestern state was one of those that still had the death penalty. No wonder she had run. The cards were still in their favor. Get her back to the precinct, and he could get the information Batman needed within ten to fifteen minutes - tops!

He caught the Bat's eye. Well, at least he thought he did. Hard to tell with those damned, creepy, white lenses. If the man could read people even half as well as Harlow could, he would know the detective had this in the bag.

"Lydia Owens-Shaw, you are under arrest for the kidnapping, torture, and illegal experimentation on a minor; for the first degree murder of Jeremy Cantor; and the harboring, aiding, and abetting of a known and wanted criminal."

Harlow stepped over as Batman reluctantly released her. The woman fell back against the chair; one of her hands reaching up to rub the back of her neck. She smirked at the Caped Crusader, and darted another look at Robin. The boy frowned, and took an unconscious step backward. Harlow didn't need to see his eyes to know she scared the hell out of him. And it _pissed_ him off!

He yanked out his cuffs as he jerked her up by her upper arm, probably adding his own bruises to the darkening marks left by Batman. He swung her around as he began to recite her Miranda Rights. He wanted this done by the book; no getting off on some damned technicality on his watch!

"Lydia Owens-Shaw, you have the right to remain silent . . ."

There was a short gasp followed by an abbreviated scream and Lydia collapsed onto the floor; her hands reaching for her throat. The handcuffs dangled from one of her wrists.

"What the _hell_?" Harlow yelled, even as he dropped to the floor beside her.

Batman dropped to her other side. "_No_, _no_, _no_, _**NO**_!" He snarled. "She has a trigger! _Fuck_!"

* * *

**You know how in the comics and the cartoons you see Batman whispering to the criminal, and the guy wetting himself in fear; ready to spill his guts? Have you ever wondered what it was that Batman was telling them? Well, now you know . . . REACTIONS? Please tell me if this is shaping up to be all you've hoped it would?**

**Guess we are going to have a three-parter . . . **


	47. Karma - Finding Lydia pt 3

**Part 3 of Finding Lydia - This one is aptly named "Karma". **

**Warning: I don't remember any language . . . Hm.**

* * *

Robin's eyes widened as Lydia went down. Oh, my God, was this what happened when one of his triggers were activated? Poor Bruce! Poor Alfred! This was terrifying, and it wasn't even someone he cared about. He walked closer, staring in horror at the woman's face. It was turning _blue_!

"I-Is this what happened to me?"

Batman didn't turn his head as he checked her pulse and felt for her breath. "No," he muttered. "Not exactly . . . She's suffocating! You would scream and then hyperventilate. Why is she suffocating?"

Harlow was on his cell calling for an ambulance, but Robin could see she would never make it. Batman started CPR. Someone needed to breathe for her. Her lips were dark blue already and her eyes were becoming bloodshot with the effort she was putting in to draw a breath.

This woman had hurt him . . . She had smiled while she had done it. She deserved . . . deserved . . . He wasn't the person to decide that, he finally thought; his shoulders slumping in defeat. If she died, she would become a victim, and that wasn't right! She wasn't a victim, but a criminal who needed to be punished by the law so that her victims would feel justice; not as if they were somehow cheated out of something important. He cringed, even as he knew what he had to do.

Robin dropped down beside Batman and moved her head back, opening her airway. He grimaced as he bent down and attempted to blow life-giving oxygen into her lungs. It was hard to do. Her lungs weren't inflating. He tried again blowing harder. There! Her chest rose, but barely. He tried again. Better this time, he thought, but was becoming dizzy from the process.

He didn't think it was supposed to be this difficult. Something was wrong! He waited thirty seconds before bending and blowing into her mouth; careful to that her head was angled correctly, that her airway was open; that he pinched her nose and created a seal so that no air could escape. Her chest rose, but not enough! Why not enough! It was as if something were preventing her from accepting oxygen, somehow blocking it.

The dizziness was becoming worse. He couldn't do this, but if he didn't, she would die! Suddenly, hands were pulling him away. He nearly fell, but caught himself with a hand. He drew in deep gulps of oxygen, trying to clear his head. He looked over to see Harlow taking over his job. As an adult, he should be able to perform the artificial respiration more easily than he had.

* * *

Batman couldn't believe his eyes when Robin dropped down next to him to breath for the woman! She had tortured and experimented on him, and he still wanted to help her?! _Dear God_, the pride he had in his son was enormous. Dick's heart was pure gold!

He grew concerned after several minutes when he caught the boy swaying, however. The effort he seemed to need to get her lungs to expand was extreme. He was about to tell him to take a break when Harlow gently removed the boy and kneeled down to take his place, on the opposite side of Lydia. After a few breaths, however, Harlow glanced up at him, confused.

"I don't get it," he said. "I can't seem to get a good breath into her! It's like there is something there, blocking most of the air; preventing it from getting to her lungs."

"This is different from Robin's attacks." Batman noted. "But even his were different based upon the trigger. Sound created bleeding in his ears . . ."

"And Lydia is suffocating because of . . . What? What was her trigger?" Harlow paused in his thinking to blow hard into the woman's mouth. He, too, was feeling a little light-headed from the effort. No wonder Robin had been swaying!

"She fell down after you started reading her her rights," Robin said. "You said, 'You have the right to remain silent', and then she reacted."

Harlow blinked. "And she is certainly silent now," he agreed. "Do you think it was a word; her trigger?"

"Like 'silent'?" Robin exclaimed, excited. "And now her special effect is being unable to breathe because without breathing, there is no speaking!"

"You're right!" Harlow and Batman said simultaneously.

"Damn! That man is an evil genius," Harlow said after another two breaths.

"No," Batman told him. "Just evil . . ."

They worked silently for a time, but it was clear that not enough air was making it to Lydia's lungs. Batman was feeling desperate. If she died, it was possible the knowledge of the last trigger would die with her. He was under no illusions that Crane would give up the information that Robin needed.

Sirens for the approaching ambulances could be heard in the distance. A patrol car pulled up outside, and an officer approached the open front door.

"In here," Harlow called. "Hurry up; I need you to take over breathing for me."

The young officer quickly made his way over to the group, gaping at the sight of Batman doing CPR on the woman. He knelt in Harlow's place, preparing to take over.

Harlow read his name on his badge. "Hennessy, allow me to introduce you to the Batman, and the lad over there is Robin. No, you cannot have their autographs, so get busy. You'll have to work at getting air in her lungs though," he explained. "It will feel as though something is blocking you, but trust me her airway is as open as it's going to get until the paramedics arrive."

"Uh, nice to meet you, sir . . . Um, Batman. Robin," he muttered, positioning the woman's head again.

Hennessy was a young buck fresh out of the academy; young and strong at twenty-three, but as he tried to breathe for the woman, he, too, had trouble making her lungs rise.

Harlow came around and tapped Batman's shoulder. "Here," he said. "Let me take over for you."

Batman moved gratefully. He immediately went to check on Robin who knelt a small distance away. The boy appeared exhausted already, proving that he was far from healed, and had no business coming out tonight.

"Are you all right," he asked softly, kneeling beside him.

He nodded. "Yeah, but that was surprisingly hard to do."

"In more ways than one," he agreed. "I want you to know how proud I am of you."

Robin glanced up, surprised. "What? B-but I thought you were mad at me?"

Batman helped the boy to his feet, and kept a hand to his shoulder as he seemed to have to ward off a wave of light-headedness. "Don't get me wrong," he told him. "I am not happy at all with you for disobeying direct orders and sneaking here in the Batmobile. We will be discussing that later," he promised.

Robin cringed at that prospect.

"No, I'm proud of you for helping your enemy; someone you were frightened of. No one would have blamed you if you would have stayed where you were; in fact, I think Harlow and I both sort of expected that. But you stepped in where you were needed when you didn't have to. Your efforts might have saved her life." Batman squeezed his shoulder as he pulled the boy against his side. "You showed a strength of character that is as rare as it is admirable."

Robin leaned into his mentor's strength for a moment before straightening. He needed to remain strong for a little while longer, he thought. It wouldn't do for the police to perceive him as weak, not if he wanted them to see him with respect and not as a little child. Already his size did him a discredit. Bad enough he was smaller than most ten-year-olds . . .

* * *

Paramedics came rushing in and began setting up. In another few minutes, after giving the men a rundown on what was happening, Harlow had rejoined the two. He was glad they hadn't rushed off, but wouldn't have been shocked if they had.

"You won't get the opportunity to search the house like you did the van this time," he warned. "So if you want to take a quick look around, do it now. Just try not to disrupt the crime scene too much, if you don't mind. I could do without another reprimand."

Batman looked at him, surprised. "You would allow that?"

"It's really your case, and," he glanced at Robin, "I'm kind of hoping that she might have some helpful notes lying about, like . . . we found at the other place."

He remembered Robin's reaction to the knowledge of Cantor's death, and didn't want to bring up the poor guy's name needlessly in front of him. Give the kid a chance to catch his breath and process the information first rather than rub his face in it. He was sure that Batman would have his hands full once he got the boy home as it was. He was fully aware that the boy had come here against Batman's express wishes.

The sound of the paramedics using a defibrillator on Lydia drew their attention back to the drama behind them. More patrol cars were pulling in and a fire truck was already outside as well. It was looking like a macabre disco outside with all the flashing lights; an epileptic's nightmare to be sure.

"You better get going," he said, handing the communicator back to Batman. "I'll try to get word to you about the woman's condition."

"Keep it," Batman said, indicating the communicator. "You can use it to contact me if the number I gave you isn't available for some reason."

"Uh, okay, sure," Harlow nodded, slipping the small device into his pocket. "I'll go and hold off the hoard for a few more minutes." He smiled at Robin and stuck out his hand. "It was a real pleasure to meet you, Robin. You impressed me back there."

He noted the hesitant smile and a faint pink blush over his praise. The boy also had a decent grip as he shook his hand. Yeah, he thought. Sam could do a lot worse for someone to want to emulate.

"Nice to meet you, Detective Harlow," Robin said. Then he turned and followed his father deeper into the house.

"Good luck, kid," Harlow whispered to the boy's disappearing back. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

He glanced back at the failing Lydia Owens-Shaw. One of the paramedics was performing an emergency tracheotomy on her as one of the firemen present assisted in the CPR. Despite their best efforts, the woman still had an alarming blue tinge to her skin.

Shaking his head, he moved outside to greet his fellow officers, give them a report, and hopefully the Dynamic Duo a few extra minutes.

* * *

**Okay, I know I didn't actually answer anything here . . . Did Lydia actually die? Was Batman able to find any helpful notes? But this seemed like the best place to end this. Questions will be answered in the next chapter - that might just get out there tonight since I finished this one so early.**

**Anyhoo, I really want to hear your REACTIONS to this one: What happens to Lydia? Does she die? Does she live? Will she go to trial or end up in Arkham or something else? It will be fun to see how many of you are correct and can follow my twisted plots . . . Happy Reading!**

**As a guest has mentioned; how did Lydia know which trigger Batman meant when he referred to it as the fourth? While there was an order to which they had been applied, this would not account for it, BUT (and you could not know this yet) there is something special about one particular trigger that sets it apart. Lydia would assume that this was the trigger to which Batman was referring . . . And it is. That being said: Keep reading! ;D**


	48. Robin's Wrath

**Warning: Language . . . and Intense Awesomeness!**

* * *

Bruce watched as Dick ran through a modified acrobatic routine. While there were a few punches and kicks included, they were done against air rather than sparring dummies or bags. Dick had grumbled about it, but Leslie had barely agreed to this workout. She had been adamant that there was to be no contact whatsoever for the foreseeable future. But it was easy to see that she was right in this. Dick still tired extremely easily.

As the routine ended, the proof was there. The boy was drenched in sweat and panting as if he had run ten miles flat out. Bruce tossed him a towel, and brought him a water bottle. He steered the boy to the bench, but didn't have to make him sit; Dick collapsed readily enough.

"I don't understand," he complained. "I was doing stuff ten times harder than this just a couple of weeks ago. And you and I would do full contact sparring for two or three hours and I still wasn't as tired at the end of it as I am now."

Bruce smiled. "That's because your body has been through the wringer since then, and it takes a while to work your way back to its previous level. You are doing amazing, by the way. You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. You'll get there!"

Dick didn't answer as he chugged the room temperature water. He had made the mistake earlier of drinking ice-cold water after his first run through of his routine, and had nearly passed out from the sudden sharp pain flaring in his chest that had literally taken his breath away. It had scared him and Bruce half to death until Alfred had explained that his heart wasn't ready for the abrupt stress the cold temperature had placed on it. Lukewarm water wasn't satisfying, but it sure beat the heck out of having paralyzing chest pains.

"So, what did Detective Harlow have to say," Dick asked when he had regained his breath.

Bruce sighed heavily. It wasn't good news. When was it ever good news? He hated disappointing Dick, but he wasn't alone in it. Bruce struggled with a wave of depression after talking with the detective a few minutes ago.

"She's dead, isn't she?" It wasn't couched as a question, but more as a statement.

"No," Bruce told him. "She's not dead, but she might as well be." At the boy's curious glance, he explained more thoroughly.

"You remember how hard it was to push air into her lungs?" Bruce waited until the boy nodded. "Well, her brain was too starved for oxygen for too long. The tracheotomy the paramedics gave her probably saved her life, but even then, they struggled raising her oxygen levels." He ran a hand through his hair in angry frustration. "She has brain damage."

Dick frowned. "Like I have?"

"No, not like you," Bruce clarified. "You were extremely lucky. Someone upstairs must like you very much."

Dick tilted his head and scrunched up his nose adorably. "Alfred?"

Bruce laughed. "Yes, Alfred likes you very much, indeed. And," he added ruffling the child's sweat-dampened hair, "so do I."

Dick smiled, always happy to hear Bruce laugh. "I lo-like you very much, too." He blushed, taking another long drink of water.

Bruce noted the slip, and felt his heart skip a beat. He returned the child's love wholeheartedly. He continued his explanation.

"Almost everything you've suffered is temporary. There still might be some issues with Anomia, and there will likely be some memories you might never recall, but all in all, you will be at ninety-nine percent in no time. Physically, we are hopeful of seeing you reach a one hundred percent recovery."

"When is that supposed to happen," Dick asked, grumpily.

"Patience," Bruce told him. "You have already made leaps and bounds."

"So, Lydia is worse off than me," Dick said, bringing them back on subject.

Bruce nodded. "They had to fly her out early this morning to Metropolis General where the nearest biphasic cuirass ventilation system is located. It's a kind of vest that helps people breath that cannot do it themselves. But being so long without proper levels of oxygen had already done its damage. She'll never regain consciousness, son."

"So, she'll never stand trial for any of it?" Dick was frowning.

"No, but wouldn't you say she's received a life sentence without possibility of parole?"

Dick sighed, obviously not happy with the results of the previous night. "So, all that I did, or tried to do, was wasted?"

Bruce turned his boy's face up so their eyes could meet. "No, it was not wasted. You are an amazing person, Dick; one that I would be proud to call my son." He released him and leaned back against the cave wall. "You impressed Detective Harlow last night as well."

Dick grinned. "So he said."

"Well, he just got through saying it again to me just a little while ago. I've had some dealings with him since this started. The man's talented and a good judge of character. He's a good ally to have." Bruce told him.

"It was nice of him to let us search Lydia's house," Dick said, "even if we didn't find nothing."

"Didn't find anything," Bruce corrected automatically, but his mind was on the previous evening.

They hadn't had much time to search the house, but still there hadn't been many places left that might have held the woman's secrets. It had been crushing in its disappointment, because Bruce had known, even as the paramedics were moving Lydia out, that there would be nothing more they would get from her.

Scarecrow would be their last chance to discover what the fourth trigger was, and frankly Bruce didn't have much hope of obtaining the villain's cooperation. Crane wasn't much in the way for plea-bargaining. He would accept the verdict whichever way it went without comment. The man's own fears had inconveniently and systematically reduced over the course of their entanglements, and Batman didn't generate the same level of . . . persuasion in the man as he might have a few years ago.

That didn't mean he wasn't planning on exploring that possibility once he caught up with him, however. Saturday . . . Three days hence. Three days until the auction and Batman's opportunity to catch Crane and drag the information out of him, one way or the other.

Seeing Robin show up in Lydia's house last evening had sent a cold wave of terror coursing through his veins; so much so that Lydia gotten past his guard enough to attempt to escape. He would have caught her, of course, but the fact was, he hadn't been aware of her moving until Robin had thrown his Batarang after her . . . All because he had been stunned stupid at the thought of his son's fourth trigger being activated in a place and time unknown to him, and he wouldn't have been able to do anything about it until it was too late.

"So, what are we doing now," Dick asked.

"_You_ are going to go shower and change into your uniform," Bruce said. "Then _we_ are heading up to the Watchtower one more time."

"_One__ more time_," Dick asked, worriedly. "What's going on with that? Are they really trying to force you to take Robin away from me?"

"It's not going to happen, Dick," Bruce assured him. "Whether or not you remain Robin will be a decision that you and I reach together. No one else will have a say in it, especially not the League."

"But what if they want to kick you out?"

"Whatever happens happens," he told him. "It will not influence my decision about Robin one way or the other."

"But what if they need you; like there is another invasion or something," Robin asked, fretfully.

"We'll deal with it if and when it becomes necessary," Bruce said. "Dick, you need to stop worrying about this. I'm not."

"But . . ."

"Dick! Stop," Bruce placed a finger across the boy's lips.

The boy blew out his breath around Bruce's finger. "M'okay," he said against the digit, his word muffled.

Bruce stifled a smile. "Go on with you," he said. "The sooner we go; the sooner we can get back."

The boy nodded and headed off to the shower at a trot. Bruce watched him go with narrowed eyes. Dick was regaining his energy a little faster now, he thought. Trotting was a definite improvement over a trudge.

* * *

"I heard you two were back," Black Canary said in lieu of greeting.

"It was quicker if we simply came up here," Batman remarked.

Canary frowned. "Did something happen?" She glanced over at the entranced child being leaned over by the hulking, green shape of the Martian Manhunter.

Batman sighed. "Yes and no."

When no other explanation appeared to be forthcoming, she poked the Bat a bit. "Care to elaborate?"

"We discovered the location of the second lab assistant. When he walked in and saw her photograph on the computer screen, he literally had an emotional breakdown. Of course, I refused to take him with me to confront her. I thought he would be happy with that decision seeing how traumatized just seeing her picture had made him." Batman was shaking his head in a delayed display of consternation.

"But . . ." She watched him carefully.

"I discovered later, while at the woman's home, that Robin had hid himself in the trunk of the Batmobile and followed me there." There was a tic in Batman's jaw; a very obvious tic. Canary blinked; fascinated.

"Oh, no," she whispered.

"This isn't the first time he's done something like this," he told her. "After his parents were killed, he snuck out of the house to search out their killer on his own as well. He told me later that he wanted to prevent his own tragedy from happening to others, and by this time he knew that I was Batman. He basically gave me an ultimatum," Batman laughed humorlessly.

Canary remained silent. She hadn't heard this story before, and as private as Batman was, she was afraid if she interrupted he would close up again. She waited breathlessly.

"He told me that he was going out. Whether or not he went with me or he would sneak out of the house after I had left was to be my decision, but he would do this thing with or without my help," Batman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I decided he would be safer with me. I was able to talk him into waiting until I could train him first.

"He is a natural-born athlete. He took to it like it was nobody's business. He was amazing . . ." Batman's eyes were covered, but Canary thought that if she could see them at that moment, they would have a faraway look in them. "He is amazing still."

Batman shook his head as if clearing it. "He was like a sponge; soaking up everything. He learned faster than even I had; every martial art, every case file, every skill that I could possibly teach him. Eventually, he was as ready as he could be without actual practical knowledge."

"And so Robin was born," Canary finished for him.

"I have had occasions where I wish I could have found a way to keep this life from him, but I have known from the beginning that it had been inevitable from the moment his parents died. Making him Robin has saved his life, Dinah . . . And I think that making him Robin might have saved mine as well."

He stopped talking at that point. And Canary knew enough to leave it alone. His confession had been a gift; a thank you, perhaps, for standing behind him in this issue. A reassurance that she had made the right decision in backing the boy's crime-fighting career.

Honestly, she wondered if he even realized that he had spoken aloud to her. He had obviously forgotten her existence or lost his reason to acknowledge her at that point. She smiled as she watched that rock-solid jaw soften as his gaze settled on the child lying on the bed across the room.

Oh, yes, she thought. She made the right decision. It was a foregone conclusion that Robin, the Boy Wonder was a permanent part of the crime-fighting community, no matter what the Justice League's verdict was.

* * *

It was late when Jon was finished. They had chosen to wait until Robin was fully recovered before leaving. The boy didn't want to be carried out again. He was afraid it would support the other Leaguers' opinion that he was too young to handle this life he had chosen for himself. Batman agreed with his assessment of the situation.

It had been far quieter this trip. Only Flash had stopped off to say hello besides Black Canary. Superman had been busy in Metropolis, Batman had assured the boy, or the Man of Steel would have dropped by as well. Still, the tension within the Watchtower was so thick that even Robin could feel it. So many of the other members were still angry with Batman because he refused to make Robin retire.

If only there was some way to convince them . . .

It was a problem that Robin continued to roll around his mind, as they thanked Jon again for his assistance. The Martian had contributed so much of his time and energy to helping him overcome Scarecrow's triggers. Robin shook Jon's hand as was expected, but he suddenly felt overwhelmed with gratitude. Without Jon's help, Robin would have died, and then so would have Batman. The boy threw himself against the six foot seven inch, towering, green alien, hugging him for all he was worth.

"Thank you," he whispered inside of his head. He knew that the telepath would hear him.

"You're most welcome, Robin," came the alien's voice in his head.

"You saved us both," he told him within his mind, showing him his memories of the spirit boy and his revelation.

Robin sensed the Martian's hesitation. He looked up at him, and saw the understanding in his face. Jon nodded.

"You are welcome," Jon said out loud.

Robin gave him one more quick hug before stepping back. He smiled, and walked out of the medical bay.

* * *

Jon touched Batman's arm as he turned to follow the boy. "You have a truly remarkable child. He loves you very much," the Martian told him quietly. "He's extremely loyal. He would do anything for you . . . You are very lucky, I think."

Batman nodded, silent for a moment as he absorbed the alien's words. "I think so as well, my friend. Thank you."

When the medical bay's door opened just moments later, yelling startled the two occupants. Exchanging a glance, they both took off in the direction of the heated argument. Batman wouldn't have given a second thought about it except that the second voice he heard yelling at the top of his young lungs appeared to belong to one colorful, little bird of his personal acquaintance.

"_You take that back_!" Robin's voice held a distinctly belligerent note to it.

"Calm down, Robin." Arrow's voice, Batman recognized. What was that arrogant prick telling his child to get him so riled up?

"You aren't any better," Robin answered. "_None_ of you know anything! You should mind your own business and stay out of Batman's!"

Wonder Woman's voice rose. "We are only concerned about your welfare, Robin. We just want what's best for you."

"You don't even know who I am," Robin countered. "I just met you a few days ago. You don't have the right to tell me what is best for me. Only Batman has earned that right!"

"Listen, kid," Lantern spoke next. "You are going to get yourself hurt out there."

Batman and Martian Manhunter rounded the corner just as Robin launched himself at Lantern.

The boy literally ran up the man's body to land a jarring, flying, roundhouse kick to the side of his head, and then twisted his body around. He used the man's chest as a springboard to launch himself toward Green Arrow.

Arrow yanked himself out of his shock in time to duck sideways, but that didn't save him as Robin twisted around mid-air to land a hard jab to his shoulder with both feet, sending the adult hero stumbling forward to land hard on his knees. Robin somersaulted off of Arrow as he threw two Batarangs in Wonder Woman's direction.

She had been gaping at the child even as she tried to assist the staggered Lantern back to his feet, so was just a second too late responding to the threat. The ropes spun around her arms and legs causing her to drop Lantern in an effort to save herself. She tottered and fell to the ground on her rump.

Robin landed safely several feet away.

Angry, groggy, and confused by the kick, Lantern sat up and shot a green beam in the boy's direction.

"**_Lantern_**! **_Stop_**!" Batman yelled, letting loose a smoke pellet in his direction to block his view of the child.

"_Hal_, _no_!" Wonder Woman shouted; breaking the ropes that held her.

"_Jordan_! _Goddamn it_!" Arrow snarled as he spun back around.

Robin dropped to his knees, leaning back as the beam shot over his head. He flipped back onto his feet after the danger had passed and ran towards the last place he had seen Green Lantern, who was still sitting on his ass in the midst of the smoke.

"**_Robin_**! _Cease and desist_, _now_" Batman raced after him, pulling a couple of Batarangs as a precaution.

There was a loud grunt, followed by an even louder thump. Martian Manhunter waved his arms and cleared the smoke seconds later. Batman skidded to a halt inches from Lantern's prone body. Batman took in the sight casually, but the other three stunned adults gaped, open-mouthed, at the sight of Robin sitting on Green Lantern's back with his arm twisted behind him. But what took them several moments to realize was that Green Lantern was lying there in his civilian clothes. Robin hopped to his feet; handing Batman Jordan's ring as he passed by.

"I'm sorry, Batman," he whispered brokenly, trying to hide his upset. "I'll meet you at the zeta-tubes." He didn't bother speaking to the others as he marched out of the room as fast as he could without running.

Jordan slowly rolled over, groaning, as he sat up; rubbing his head gingerly where Robin's boot had connected twice in fewer than as many minutes. He looked up blearily at the imposing figure of the Batman looming over him.

"What the _hell_ . . ." he muttered.

Batman dropped the ring back into the man's lap. Before Jordan could reach for it, however, the Dark Knight jerked the man off of the floor by his collar; holding him an inch from his face.

"If you _**EVER**_ use that ring against my son again, I will make sure you are **_buried_** with it," he snarled furiously; his voice low and menacing.

He sat Jordan back on his feet. He turned away without awaiting a reply, but then suddenly spun around. Before anyone could blink, Batman let loose a flurry of devastating kicks that sent the man skidding across the floor several yards away.

Batman walked away without comment or apology to anyone. They look at one another as he left, feeling vaguely like they had just skirted the edge of disaster and somehow survived. Manhunter shook his head at the group as he levitated over to the now unconscious Hal Jordan; retrieving the abandoned ring as he went.

* * *

Batman located Robin standing next to the zeta-tubes with his shoulders hunched. He stopped by the boy, but when his hand brushes the child's trembling shoulder, Robin shrugs him off; surprising him.

"Are you hurt," he asks, concerned. He can see easily that the boy is beyond exhausted; having worked himself far past his current physical limitations. It is a wonder that he can still stand on his own.

Robin shakes his head. "Just take me home now."

"Do you want me to carry you," he asks softly.

"No," he sniffles. "That would just undo everything that I just accomplished."

Batman nods, although the boy still has his head bent down and is unable to see it. He steps forward putting in their codes. When the machine acknowledges them, he holds his hand out, unsure if Robin would choose to take it or ignore it.

Hesitantly, the boy's smaller hand slipped into Batman's larger one. Before he could step forward though, Robin tugged to get his attention. The boy's chin wobbled dangerously as he gazed up at him.

"What is it, Robin?" It was all he could do not to pull the child into his arms.

"I'm _sorry_," he whispered. "It's all my fault if they decide to kick you out now. I just wanted them to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop trying to tell you what to do. Stop trying to force me to give up being Robin. To just . . . _stop,_ and leave us alone. I-I didn't mean to get you into trouble with them though. _Honest_." A lone tear slithered out from beneath the boy's mask; meaning the material had to have already been soaked for the droplet to make it free.

"You didn't get me into trouble," he told him.

The boy didn't look like he believed him, but nodded anyway as he stepped forward into the zeta beam. Batman followed; a proud smile curving his lips as the beam broke down his body in preparation for transport.

His son had just kicked major Justice League ass . . . All by his ten-year-old self!

_That's my boy_ . . .

* * *

**Hah! And he wasn't even in top form, either! Needless to say, the element of surprise had a LOT to do with his success, but Robin has been taught to use every advantage at his disposal. So, he did . . . Even Matrix style at one point. It will be interesting to see if he got his point across or not. But I guess that Green Lantern has finally gotten to see the kid in action! Hopefully he'll be able to remember it after his concussion mends. ;D**

**REACTIONS, please! I'm very curious as to what you think of it . . . **


	49. Recovery Time

**Awesomeness comes with a price sometimes . . . **

**No Warnings**

* * *

Coming through the zeta-tube, Batman nearly tripped over Robin where he kneeled on the floor. In a heartbeat, he had shoved the cowl back and crouched down beside the boy.

"Overdid it, didn't you," he asked gently as he ran hands over each of Robin's limbs.

He was cool and clammy to the touch; his body trembling from the strain of what he had just put it through. Bruce reached up and removed the mask from Dick's face. He needed to see the boy; needed to be certain he was truly okay after his takedown of three League members. Just remembering the quick, graceful movements performed, he felt another surge of pride in Robin's skills. The boy was going to grow up to be the best of them all; he was sure of it.

Despite his rather awesome display on the Watchtower a few minutes before, Dick looked very unhappy. Tears ran freely down his face. He held his shaking arms up in an unusual, silent request to be carried. The reaction was odd enough that worry that the boy was indeed hurt began to seep in. Bruce carefully lifted the child in his arms. Strangely enough, Dick seemed to weigh nothing. As if his outburst of earlier had literally taken everything out of him, not just energy.

"Are you hurt," Bruce asked him again. He figured Dick hadn't wanted to say anything that might have been overheard on the Watchtower and construed as a weakness. Understandable, if a little foolish on his part.

He shook his head a little. "It's just . . . It's just . . ." his sentence petered off unfinished.

Growing more concerned, Bruce turned sharply from his original destination of the changing room to head in the direction of the Batcave's own medical bay. Laying the child on the gurney, Bruce looked him over more carefully.

His pulse was rapid and a little irregular, and he was breathing rapidly. Bruce already knew he was displaying symptoms of dizziness, trembling, fatigue and drowsiness, but was also signs of fearfulness and emotional upset. He called Alfred to come down as Bruce checked the boy's blood pressure.

"Dick? Talk to me," he said. "What's going on?"

The boy rolled his eyes, as if he couldn't quite remember where he was.

"Dick, tell me where you are," he asked.

"Hm . . . Um, what?" Dick made an aborted attempt to sit up, but was too weak to manage it. He slumped back on the gurney suddenly.

"Dick!" Bruce checked his pulse again. Still rapid, his blood pressure was a little low though, in spite of that. "Dick!"

The boy's eyes fluttered. "B-Bruusse?" He was totally out of it now.

Bruce thought about what all he had been through earlier, and realized that Dick hadn't eaten anything since that morning, and he hadn't drank anything during the session with Jon; just a small bottle of water after he came out of the trance. Then the excessive workout involved in taking down three Leaguers . . . Although it had only been a slightly shorter duration from his morning training workout; that was only because Robin had been moving faster. It had also been the high impact stuff that Leslie had expressly forbidden.

"Oh, dear," Alfred moved quickly into the room. "What happened? I thought you were only going to the Watchtower? Is he injured?"

"No, not injured," Bruce shook his head, disgusted by his own shortsightedness. Dick was only ten; he couldn't be expected to realize his own weaknesses all the time, especially in emotionally volatile circumstances. This was his fault.

"I suspect he's dehydrated and may have low blood sugar," Bruce turned to the cabinet nearby to retrieve a bag of saline and accoutrements for an IV drip, as Alfred pricked Dick's finger to test his glucose level.

"This is my fault," he admitted to the elder man. "I meant to get him something to eat before this last session with Jon began, but he was prepared to start immediately, and Dick didn't object."

"Those sessions, they take several hours, do they not?" Alfred asked this while watching the glucose meter. "Ah, yes, that is indeed the problem," he said, a frown appearing on his face at the reading. "50 mg/dl is far too low."

"Still," Alfred mused as he prepared an injection of glucagon for the boy, "I'm surprised it dipped this low. He wasn't doing anything strenuous, after all."

"Ah . . . Well, that isn't exactly true," Bruce muttered, his guilt for his complicity in Dick's condition multiplying exponentially.

"I don't suppose you would care to elaborate on that," Alfred turned to his surrogate son. It didn't take much more than a particular tone to illicit the action he wanted to get from his now-grown charge, much as it had when he was still a child.

"_That_ wasn't my fault, Alfred! I want you to know that first," Bruce rubbed the back of his neck, keeping his eyes on Dick. He noted the clamminess was gone and the boy's lips were looking a bit chapped. Dehydration, also . . . Just as he suspected.

The major domo of the Wayne household merely raised an eyebrow.

Dick's eyes fluttered open again. He reached for the IV line, and Bruce grabbed his wrist, gently bringing it back down to his side.

"You need the fluids, chum. Leave the line alone," he told the boy. "Just relax for now. You're going to feel better soon."

"Bruce, I'm sorry," the boy started sobbing again, although it looked like he had used up all of his tears.

"Sh, you didn't do anything wrong," he assured him, running a hand through the soft, dark hair. "In fact, I would have to say you did a lot right. Those stuffed shirts up on the Watchtower will think twice now before messing with Robin, the Boy Wonder." Bruce's lips curved up in amusement.

Dick's eyes widened and his mouth curved into an answering, if wobbly, smile.

"You just overdid it. You hadn't eaten since breakfast and that one bottle of water after your session with Jon hadn't been nearly enough to get you through without side effects." At Dick's frown, Bruce clarified. "You were dehydrated and hypoglycemic."

"Hypo-what?" His face scrunched up adorably in confusion.

"Hypoglycemic . . . Low blood sugar from exercising on an empty stomach."

Dick's face cleared up. "Well, why didn't you just say that in the beginning?"

Bruce laughed. "I just did." He smiled, happy to see the sparkle returning to the previously dulled, blue eyes.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Indeed. I believe that I'm still waiting to hear this obviously fascinating tale. Which one of you would care to fill me in on all the exciting details . . .?"

Although Dick was now feeling much better, he was still exhausted. Bruce did the telling. The boy eyes was sparkling with humor at the dramatic retelling of his exploits by the time Bruce was finished. He was surprised to hear of Batman's actions after he had left the scene, however. He hadn't realized . . .

Alfred face was stern, but there was no hiding the pride in the elder man's eyes. "I must say, that was quite a thrilling account. I am very certain that those particular members will remember that Robin is a force to be reckoned with in future. But, if I may suggest," he told the youngest family member as he bent to check the boy's glucose level once more, "that you choose the timing for your fights until after you have fully recuperated, or at the very least, when you're not hovering on the edge of starvation."

Dick laughed. "Hardly starvation, Alfred, but yeah, I see your point. I'll try to do better next time."

"If we are in luck, then there won't be a next time, chum," Bruce smirked. "Although, Lantern isn't the brightest bulb. He might need some more convincing, especially if he can't remember what happened after he wakes up."

"You knocked him out," Dick asked as Bruce adjusted the gurney so that he could sit up.

"It didn't take much," he commented. "You had his head swimming the way it was. But I would prefer you wait for backup the next time you try to take on the Justice League." He leaned a hip against the gurney as he faced the boy. "Whatever possessed you to attack them like that; particularly all three of them?"

"I figured it was the only way that they would respect me; if they saw with their own eyes that I can handle myself." Dick shrugged his thin shoulders. "Then maybe they will stop being mad at you and not kick you out."

He certainly didn't look like he would be a 'force to be reckoned with' as Alfred had so aptly phrased it, Bruce thought to himself. But one day . . . One day, criminals would tremble in this boy's presence, and the world's heroes would defer to him. Batman would make certain of it.

"I told you, Dick, I don't want you worrying about that. I'll handle the League."

"68 mg/dl," Alfred announced. "Much better, Master Dick, but it will be better still if I fix you a small repast now."

Dick perked up at that. Bruce was handing him a bottle of Gatorade. "That sounds good, Alfred. I was feeling kind of queasy before, but now I'm hungry."

"I'll get him changed and bring him up in a few more minutes, once his IV is finished, Alfred," Bruce told him.

"Very good, sir," he said. "And then, perhaps an early evening of it for you, Master Dick? You've had a rather full day as it is, I believe."

The boy opened his mouth, as if to complain, and then seemed to relax. "Okay, Alfred," he acquiesced, surprising them both. He _must_ be feeling tired to agree to an early bedtime so easily.

"Is Batman going out," Dick asked, quietly.

"Later," Bruce said, "after you are tucked in and asleep. There are a few things I want to check out tonight."

"That theater that Lydia mentioned?"

"Exactly, chum," Bruce ruffled the child's hair. "I need to get a lay of the land before this auction."

Dick face scrunched in concentration. "Do you think there will be a lot of people showing up for that? You know, assassins and other bad guys and stuff."

"It's likely," he admitted.

He had been thinking about that. It was an opportunity to take down some of the more highly reputable assassins at the same time. But the assassins weren't as high on Batman's list of priorities that they might have been otherwise; except if one of them might actually get his hands on the Death by Fear toxin. That was something he planned to prevent, of course, but his goal of this mission centered on the capture of just one monster . . . Scarecrow, and prying out him information on Robin's fourth trigger!

"Batman might need some backup on Saturday," Dick commented casually.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "What? You don't think Batman can handle it on his own," he asked, amused.

"Robin is always willing . . .," he began.

"_No_! Don't even bother bringing it up," Bruce cut him off unequivocally. "I don't want you anywhere _near_ Scarecrow right now, even if you were up for it – Which you _aren't_!"

Dick sighed. "Okay, not Robin," he agreed, "but you'll need _someone_!"

"That's what tonight's about, chum," Bruce reassured him. "If it goes well, I should be able to handle it all just fine alone. Now, you rest a bit while I go change. I'll be in the changing room if you need me in the meantime. I'll be able to hear you if you call out. Be back in a moment."

* * *

Dick watched Bruce walk away, silently. Bruce hadn't heard a word he had just said, the boy thought miserably. He was going to try to do this alone. It wasn't like Dick didn't trust Batman to handle things, but sometimes . . . Sometimes people just needed a little extra help. That was why Batman needed Robin. But if Robin couldn't be there to help him, then who would?

* * *

**Reactions? Getting close now . . . **


	50. The Auction pt 1

**Cameo appearances made by some villains you may recognize. (I don't own them, either.)**

**Warning: Language . . .**

* * *

No one noticed the shadow within the shadows of the upper balcony. The stairs leading up here had long ago crumbled away due to rot and termites. He had crouched here since before sunrise, waiting patiently; much as a spider waited. Of course, he wasn't a spider. No . . .

He was a _Bat_.

Slowly, one by one, they had begun to arrive. Mercenaries, spies, villains, and assassins . . . Even the occasional military representative from various countries. He spotted several he recognized from Middle Eastern countries, several more from a plethora of countries found on the African continent, China, North Korea, and Russia. He saw insignias indicating several Central and South American drug cartels. There were a couple of men he remembered seeing FBI photos of that he knew were members of the Chicago and New York mafia families. And did it mean he was cynical that he was unsurprised to see a couple of men he knew for a fact were CIA?

As the time neared ten o'clock, Batman frowned. Was that Mercy; the woman who worked for Lex Luthor? Twin enforcers entered shortly after, clearing the way for Harvey Dent aka Two-Face. The mask sliding from behind the curtain revealed the assassin, Cheshire. The hulking figure of Ra's al Ghul's right hand man from the League of Assassins, Ubu, moved through the door; his presence causing a couple of minor gang members to scatter and allowing him to find a convenient seat in the ever-growing crowd.

A hiss issued from his mouth at the last entry . . . Deathstroke!

He had to hand it to Crane; this little auction would set him up for life. He certainly wouldn't need to steal anymore to fund his research and experiments. With the kind of haul he looked to score here, Scarecrow could afford enough ingredients to gas the entirety of New Jersey with his fear toxin. Or he could always retire to the Grand Cayman Islands . . . Although that wasn't likely given the man's penchant for violent and bloody death inspired by his mad concoctions.

The only one he had yet to see was the Scarecrow himself; the one particular monster he was looking for.

A movement on the balcony caught his eye. He slipped a Batarang from his belt in preparation of a quick and silent dispatch when he recognized the figure moving furtively forward. What was _she_ doing here?

He stepped out of the deepest shadows, knowing his colleague would register the movement and come to him. Sure enough, he saw her duck and move swiftly in his direction.

"Been here long," Black Canary asked.

"What are you doing here?" He growled low.

"I intercepted a communication from a little bird," she explained with a grin that came and went in a heartbeat. "He was worried about you." She looked out over the crowd below and grimaced. "Looks like he had a right to be."

"You didn't need to come," the Bat told her. "I know what I'm doing."

She shrugged, her eyes never straying from the throng below them. "I never said you didn't. But everyone could use a helping hand every now and then. Are you saying that my assistance isn't appreciated?" At this, she did look back over her shoulder at him.

"I . . . No, I'm not saying that," he said carefully. "While I might not _need_ the help, I still appreciate it. Thank you."

Canary blinked in surprise. Amazing what the presence of one little light in the dark could do for a person, Canary thought, happy that she answered Robin's summons.

"But a word of advice," he added, softly. "When the action starts, keep your head down, look before you leap, stay away from the doors, and leave Scarecrow to me."

Canary frowned at that, but before she could comment, another voice spoke up.

"Is this a private party or can anyone join?"

Batman closed his eyes and stifled a groan. Just what he needed . . .

"Arrow, a little far from Star City, aren't you," he grumbled, wondering how many people had received Robin's request.

"Hey, beautiful," Arrow greeted Canary with a smile. "Was in the neighborhood and thought I would drop by and see some guy about a crow."

"I didn't think you cared," Batman murmured dryly.

"I don't," he snarked. "But your little bird was pretty persuasive the other evening, and _him_ I like. So, when he called saying that you might need a little back up . . . well, nothing _else_ was going on tonight. I thought to myself, what the hell . . ."

"Is anyone else going to show up uninvited," he asked, sighing.

Arrow shrugged. "Maybe. There were several others present that heard the little bird's request," he said. "I gotta admit, he's a cute kid, so yeah . . . Maybe."

"He was worried about you," Canary reminded him again. "And there are a lot of bad guys down there for one man to handle; even you."

He didn't answer. Instead he signaled for silence. Upon seeing Batman tense, Arrow and Canary moved forward carefully to watch.

* * *

A tall, thin man walked out across the decimated stage. He wore a suit, although it had seen better days, but over his head was the mask that gave him his name . . . A burlap sack with holes torn out for the eyes to see out of, and a rip where the mouth should be; the Scarecrow.

"Gentlemen . . . Ladies," the burlap bag nodded to the two women present. His voice sounded as if he had been gargling glass; low, raspy, and painful sounding.

The murmurs of voices quieted quickly in response.

"You have come upon my invitation to witness the creation of my newest fear toxins and, should they suit your purposes, to bid on them. I call the first, Death by Fear toxin as the victim will indeed die . . . From fright." A maniacal giggle that escaped from the burlap, only to be cut short by a gasp, as the madman quickly regained control. "The second, I will tell you about soon enough."

_Two_? There were _two_ toxins now? Batman frowned as he continued to watch silently.

"I will show you a short film outlining the experiments testing the product, and then we will commence with the bidding," Scarecrow made a gesture, and a square of light flickered on the scarred, dingy screen behind him.

The picture flickered to life and Jonathon Crane filled the screen.

* * *

There was a creaking noise heard as Batman's hand tightened relentlessly on the weakened, banister railing. He leaned forward narrowing his eyes. The bastard was planning to show Robin's torture?

He ground his teeth together and sent shooting pains through his jaw when Crane instructed Jeremy to clamp Robin's mouth closed and pinch his nose. He very nearly stood up right then and swooped down on Scarecrow at that moment when he saw Robin's fear and the way the boy struggled against his bonds. When the child was allowed to breathe again, it was only to inhale the powdered drug.

Scarecrow was injecting a bit of narrative to the film, but Batman wasn't listening. He couldn't hear him over the roaring in his ears.

_Goddamn it_! _Goddamn it to hell_!

In a few minutes, the picture flickers as time has obviously passed, and now Crane is holding up a picture . . . Of Batman! Where did he get . . .? But then he is turning around and showing the picture to Robin, and Batman's heart stops and restarts at a fast, pounding rhythm as he recognizes the beginning stages of a trigger activation.

The crowd murmurs its approval. Batman growls . . .

"_Dear God_ . . ." Arrow whispers. Green Arrow had not witnessed Robin's attack on the Watchtower. He had only seen the reaction to Superman's symbol after the trigger had been mostly removed. That couldn't compare to what was being shown on the screen now.

Although the sound was not a great quality, the noise from Robin's convulsions were loud and distressing. This was what was different about the cowl's trigger. The boy seized in every account, but usually his muscles would just tighten terribly and quiver. Here his body might have thrown the child from the chair if it hadn't been for his restraints.

Finally, the convulsions ceased as his body reached the stage of the seizure, and he arced his back in a painful display; teeth clenched, lips drawn back. His eyes couldn't be seen, but Bruce knew they would be rolled up into his head. A long minute passed, and then the boy collapsed.

Vaguely, he noted the objections of Jeremy Cantor could be heard. There had been more than enough time to use the defibrillator on him, but Crane had deliberately refused it despite Cantor's reminders. Instead, he chose to wait, risking Robin's life to make a point.

"Batman, no!"

Canary's words broke through his thoughts, through the roaring in his head. Batman blinked and realized he was standing up and preparing to throw himself into the unfriendlies below them. No one had seen him yet, so he squat down behind the balcony wall once more.

_Damn_! This hadn't been part of his plan. He hadn't expected to lose it so badly that he would have been willing to forgo the plan for a chance to strangle the life out of Scarecrow in front of a hostile audience. He glanced over at the concerned faces of Green Arrow and Black Canary, and found himself a little bit grateful for Robin's forethought.

"As you can see, the entire process took from start to finish approximately twenty-five minutes," Scarecrow was saying. "But I think we can do a little better than that. Continue watching as we change the form that the toxin is given from inhalation to ingestion."

"Hey! Is that kid in the video Robin, the freaking Boy Wonder," came a voice out of the crowd. Batman recognized the voice as belonging to Two-Face. The villain was a little more than interested in Robin since he had almost killed the boy nearly a year ago.

Two close calls in a year . . . Maybe the League had a point. Batman shook his head. He had tried to fire Robin after that incident with Two-Face and the boy had run away, intending to fight crime without Batman's aid, and _that_ was as surely a death sentence as any.

"Why, yes," Scarecrow said. "It is; the former Boy Wonder, himself."

Batman narrowed his eyes. Scarecrow was assuming that Robin had died from his triggers.

"Former? You killed the kid?" Another voice in the crowd, but one Batman didn't recognize. "I mean, you didn't bring him back like in the video?"

Scarecrow turned to the speaker, but from his perch Batman couldn't see who it was. "I brought the little bird back after each and every experiment, but the triggers do not go away once they are activated. They remain until the victim is dead or is so brain damaged that he might as well be. So, a word of advice to you; do not give a trigger unless you are certain that you want that person dead. There are no do-overs here once a trigger is given."

"_Each time_?" A different voice. "How many triggers did you give the kid?"

"You didn't use _different_ subjects?"

"I'm not so comfortable trusting someone who could do that to a kid."

Batman watched as two men stood up and pushed their way through the crowd toward the rear exit. He checked his time. Still several minutes . . . They wouldn't get far. Despite what Robin believed, the theater was surrounded by police and S.W.A.T. teams. But he didn't think the police would be quite prepared for a mass exodus either, he thought as five more people stood up. He hadn't taken in the fact that maybe some of the hardened mercenaries and criminals here would be squeamish when it came to torturing and killing a child. It almost enough to make him feel warm and fuzzy inside . . . Almost. The vast majority of the buyers still sat and waited, interested despite the sickness of the man who developed the weapon.

"I am a _scientist_," Scarecrow declared. "And science, done correctly, is an art form! I spent the past _week_ on _other_ subjects and refining my process even further. But the secondary subjects died too quickly to be entertaining," he muttered. "They died nearly as quickly as if someone had put a bullet into their head. And where is the art in _that_?"

The two men leaving paused.

"There are two versions now," Scarecrow told them. "The first," he said, waving at the image of Robin, "causes the victim to die within five minutes of a fear-induced heart attack. The second causes a massive stroke that kills the victim within sixty seconds of trigger activation. Neither method can be traced back to the assassin."

_Dear God_! The second version was indeed a death sentence. There would be no way to save the victim, and he would be utterly destroyed even if you could! Fear shot through Batman at the thought that Robin's last trigger might be linked to the more refined version.

"Setting a trigger is faster as well. Even Robin's last trigger took no longer than ninety seconds to establish after an injection of the first version, reducing the time from start to finish to a mere five minutes." Scarecrow was warming up to his subject.

His shoulders slumped in relief. That's right; Scarecrow said he had spent the past week refining it into the second, deadlier toxin form. He has rescued Robin over a week ago. Robin still had a chance of surviving this.

Scarecrow held up a small device in the palm of his hand. It suddenly flashed a rapid tempo in strobe-like effect. "This is all you need now to create a trigger. And this," he held up a small, bullet-shaped object. "You press it to your throat, above the voice box and enter the word of choice, and Ta-Da! Instant trigger! No muss; no fuss . . . You are in and out of there within two minutes of injecting the subject with a dose of the Death by Stroke toxin. The victim will not even remember you being there.

"While it is more efficient, the Death by Stroke toxin isn't nearly as . . . _fun_." Scarecrow's voice lowered on the last word.

"What is this worth to you, ladies and gentlemen," he asked. "A way to kill that cannot be linked to you; that for all intents and purposes resemble natural death and cannot be traced. You will receive several vials, all the accoutrements that accompany them and the formula there by allowing you to create an unlimited supply."

Scarecrow walked to the front of the stage and held up two small vials. "Shall we start the bidding at twenty million dollars?"

* * *

**Reactions? **

**It took me a little while to get this up because I realized that "Yes! Batman planned to do this alone!" And then, "How the _hell_ was he going to do this all alone?" Even though we don't yet see him taking action here, I was freaking out a little, drawing diagrams of the theater from different angles, trying to figure out a way for the Dark Knight to be able to do this by himself - even if he didn't have to. **

**I have since figured it out . . . I'm sure it took me much longer than Batman would have taken. I'm quite certain he has been kicking back, cooling his heels while waiting impatiently for me to catch up with his tactical genius. All I can say is, he could have given me some hints! **

**I should be getting chapter 51 out this evening, around 7pm PST (10pm EST) or earlier. **


	51. Hell In A Handbasket - The Auction pt 2

**Warning: Language . . . Disturbing imagery  
**

* * *

"Twenty million." Ubu started the bidding immediately. His employer's funds were nearly limitless.

"Twenty-one," Mercy spoke up quickly, representing another whose wealth was enough to be a viable competitor in the emerging bidding war.

"Twenty-two," Two-face called out. Batman frowned. Two-face had money, but _that_ kind of money he thought was beyond the psychotic criminal.

"Twenty-three," came a yell from a representative of Sal Di Bastiani, the head of the reigning New York mafia family.

Batman stood up and moved to the center of the balcony, pulling several small grenades from his utility belt as he did so. Green Arrow and Black Canary moved to flank him.

"Twenty-five," followed quickly; this from the man heading the bidding from Chicago's mafia don, Antonio Li Vecchi.

"Twenty-eight." Ubu bumped the number up significantly.

"Thirty." Mercy raised her hand with her bid.

Cheshire and Deathstroke didn't bother bidding. The former didn't have the kind of deep pockets required for this, and the latter didn't care who won. It was likely both had plans to steal the toxins from whoever came out on top. Batman could see the two mercenaries eyeing one another from their positions along the wall.

Within another few minutes, the price had soared upwards of fifty million. A few stood up, as the price had exceeded their range. Batman prepared himself to act.

"One hundred million dollars!"

The extravagance of this number brought everyone's head around. It came from a representative of a terrorist nation. It was countered within seconds by North Korea.

"Five Hundred million!" Ubu must be getting bored, Batman thought. He wanted to end this.

"One billion dollars," Mercy countered swiftly, taking a step forward. "And my employer will match any other bid placed today and add an additional five hundred thousand to the final number."

Lex Luthor would not be getting his hands on either of those vials if Batman had any say in it. And he did . . . Without warning, Batman threw one of the grenades into the center of the theater.

"Cover your ears," he warned, even as he threw his cape over his face. "Close your eyes!"

The flash-bang grenade exploded, and the theater was suddenly filled with yells and screams as everyone tried to scatter. Blinded and deaf, it was a free-for-all, as the men climbed over broken seats and bodies alike in this latest bid; this time one for freedom. As vision began to clear, the throng split in order to reach the closest exits. Batman hit the remote on his belt.

Nets explodes out from the top of the doors, engulfing all who were struggling to exit; a dozen men easily in every net. They fell tangled to the floor, effectively blocking all those behind them from escaping. Seconds later, four more flash-bang grenades had struck the four corners of the theater adding to the general confusion and panicked cries of audience. One could not tell from the thronging mass below that most of those present were hardened ex-military commandos. Several someones began shooting . . . Likely members of the drug cartels who Batman suspected weren't nearly as self-controlled as many of the others.

Batman motioned to Green Arrow, pointing out targets that were spraying automatic gunfire. Between well-placed Batarangs and a combination of boxing glove arrows and stun arrows, the gun fire was reduced to sporadic shots here and there in seconds.

"Use smoke or Canary to further confuse them, and more nets, if you have them," Batman instructed. "I'm calling in the police and going after Scarecrow."

"Right," Arrow nodded. He glanced at Canary. "Huh, I guess he didn't need our help after all."

Canary shrugged with a smirk, and turned back to the madhouse beneath them. Letting out a sonic cry, she cut a huge swath down the center.

Batman tossed a handful of smoke pellets and shot off his grapnel hook into the strongest looking beam over the stage. Scarecrow was just climbing to his feet, and getting ready to flee. He knew the moment the madman spotted him. He pulled out a mini dart gun, and fired. Scarecrow fell back down onto one knee as the dart hit him in the shoulder, embedding a subdermal tracker beneath his skin.

He tensed, preparing to swoop down onto his prey, when a crash from overhead had him flinching to avoid falling debris. He saw Arrow and Canary doing the same. There was a breeze and a flash of green speeding by him . . .

_No_! _Damn it_!

* * *

The danger presented by Scarecrow's Death by Fear toxin and Robin's plea for assistance brought nearly every League member to attention. The boy had buried himself deep into everyone's hearts, in spite of their opinions on his role as a crime-fighter. And since his attack on three league members the other night, some of those had subsequently changed their minds on the subject.

Superman had a difficult time containing his expression after viewing the security footage of the event. Even recovering, the little dynamo had shown improvement since the last time Superman had had the opportunity to see him in action. He had been, quite frankly, damned impressive.

What had surprised him was the fact that Wonder Woman's stance on Robin in the field had not changed while Green Lantern's had. Green Arrow had enjoyed immensely showing the footage of Lantern's decimation at the hand of a ten-year old to the concussed hero. Afterwards, the ring-bearer had grudgingly admitted that the boy had handed him his ass, and was prepared to let the matter go at that.

Diana had refused to bend on the matter, however, no matter how impressed she had been. She couldn't get over the trigger-activated attack she had witnessed. She wanted him safe, and in the field was not safe!

But when Robin's entreaty had come through, it became more of an argument over who would remain behind than who would go and face the Batman's wrath. No one knew better than Superman how little Batman liked to ask for help, and to have that help foisted upon him unsolicited . . . Well, it demonstrated the team's newfound affection for Batman's apprentice that they were willing to annoy the man in order to answer the boy's heartfelt pleas for assistance.

In the end, it had been Flash, Green Lantern, and Superman to zeta to a Gotham location ten blocks from the theater location that Robin had given them. As they approached, Superman could see the police had already surrounded the building, preparing to enter, he assumed, on Batman's command. With his x-ray vision, he could see that Green Arrow and Black Canary had also opted to join the fray. He frowned at the sheer number of people inside, however. At least forty, perhaps more filled the ground floor of the theater. His ears picked up the sound of automatic gunfire . . .

Too many, he thought. Even with Green Arrow and Black Canary, there would be too many for the Dark Knight to handle.

He crashed through the roof behind where he knew the three other heroes stood. Flash used his speed to scale the building and leaped through behind him. Green Lantern flew through the hole he had created and straight on toward the stage . . . And the Scarecrow! Batman's cape billowed out in the Lantern's wake.

"No! _Damn it_!" Batman snarled in anger. "_Lantern_!"

* * *

"_This_ is the guy Bats is worried about?" Lantern spotted him immediately upon entering the theater behind Superman.

A grim smile crossed his face as he poured on speed. It hadn't been so long ago that Lantern didn't remember having to help Robin breathe after the trigger this bastard gave him was activated at the Watchtower. The kid was something else . . . And the world would be a much darker place, he decided, without the boy in it. It was time for a little payback, on behalf of the Green Lantern Corps . . .

As he neared the stage and the skinny, little creep, Lantern's ring began to glow brighter in preparation of his attack.

"Eat my green, asshole," he yelled.

A cloud of white smoke billowed up between them, and Lantern had too much momentum to stop. He tried to swerve, but part of the cloud still enveloped him as he flew through it.

He instantly tried to backpedal mid-air as Parallax moved out from behind the deteriorating curtain. It barely fit inside of the huge area. How did it know he was here?

The creature opened its mouth as if to swallow him whole!

"_Noooo_," Green Lantern yelled, his ring flashing in preparation of the coming battle.

His concentration faltered, however, as a small child, a little girl, walked out onto the stage between them. Lantern's eyes widened even as Parallax grasped the child in its bonelike appendages. He shot a beam at the monster, intending to rip the thing apart, but the beam did nothing . . . Nothing at all! It passed right through the beast and blasted a hole the size of a semi in the back wall of the theater.

The child screamed in terror as the creature bit the tiny girl in half; her blood staining the giant teeth and dripping down its jutting chin.

"_NO_!" He screamed. "_Oh, God, Noooo_!"

* * *

Batman propelled himself off of the balcony after Green Lantern, his rebreather already in place. The fool had no idea what lay in wait for him. His cape flowing out behind him in dramatic effect as he swung out over the crowd, ignoring the chaos below him in favor of taking out the bastard that had haunted his nightmares for the past two weeks.

As he suspected, Scarecrow was ready should things go bad and people try to rush him. The cloud of fear gas plumed into the air, and although Jordan had tried to avoid it, he had barreled through the very midst of it. It took all of four seconds before the hallucinations began. Batman frowned. Even his normal fear gas had been improved upon; taking far less time to affect its victim than usual. Lantern was screaming and a loose beam took out the back wall. Scarecrow scrambled toward freedom.

Even as Batman landed on the stage, he could see pandemonium breaking out behind him as white gas billowed out, mixing with the Batman's own smoke pellets. The sporadic gunfire of earlier now burst into war. He glanced at the fleeing madman, ground his teeth and turned back to the auditorium. He had hoped to have had this wrapped up with little or no injuries. He wasn't certain if Lantern's rushing the stage had made the situation worse or if this had been inevitable. He pulled out several capsules he had prepared earlier.

"Superman," he called out, not bothering to raise his voice. Clark would be able to hear him regardless of the screams and gunfire. "Clear the smoke and gas from the room," he said. "Blow it toward the hole behind me. Warn the others to stay back and not to breathe in this stuff."

A couple of seconds and a fierce wind blew the smoke and gas toward him, his cape billowing and swirling in the maelstrom. The gunfire stopped as people struggled to keep their feet. His lenses protected his eyes enough that batman could see Flash assisting the sudden rush of air by spinning his arms. As the air began to clear, Batman signaled them to stop.

Crunching the capsules in each hand, Batman flung them out into the crowd. A new gas seeping out to envelop the bodies that fought and surged in an effort to escape what they must now believe to be their tomb, such was the fear on each of their faces. Slowly, but surely, the new gas slowed their movements. Men began to stumble; a few of them closest to where a capsule had landed were starting to collapse. The sedating gas was working . . . Gordon, still outside, was armed with the antidote.

"Scarecrow's getting away, although I don't expect him to get very far," Batman told Superman. "I'm going after him. Can I count on you to wrap this up in here for me? I'll be sending in Commissioner Gordon with the police and the antidote for the gas."

Superman flew down to the stage. "Let me get Scarecrow," he offered.

"No," Batman snarled at him. "_Scarecrow is_ **_mine_**!"

* * *

Without another word, Batman turned and ran after the monster. Superman watched him go with a worried look on his face. It was a matter of trust, he knew. Just how much did he trust his friend not to murder the man who had tortured and killed his child repeatedly during the past couple of weeks.

It wasn't as if Clark _didn't_ trust him . . . If only it hadn't been _Dick_ that Scarecrow had chosen to harm . . .

He sighed. Perhaps, if he hurried, he could leave the others to clean up this mess. He wouldn't interfere . . . Well, unless . . . Just unless. Bruce wouldn't even have to know he was there.

* * *

**Reactions? **

**I'm dying wanting to hear your reactions to this chapter . . . **

**Oh, and for guest, Carl, the part I mention in chapter 50 about Two-Face nearly killing Robin is a reference to Robin: Year 1, in which Two-Face nearly beats Robin to death with a baseball bat while a restrained Batman is forced to watch. The story is already out there and waiting for you in comic form.**


	52. Some Assistance Required - Auction pt 3

**Warning: Bad Language . . . Violence (Hey! It's Batman! Violence is a given.)  
**

* * *

It wasn't difficult to find him; it was just a matter of following the screams. But once through the police barricade, the screams had tapered off behind him and in front lay a crowd of people. They stared as Batman rushed through them. It was unusual to see the hero out in the daylight hours. Several people backed up and ran in the other direction, to what they hoped was safety. This was Gotham City . . . The people here knew that only the worst could bring Batman out into the light. They were afraid, and they had every right to be.

Batman slowed, realizing that he couldn't follow by sight anymore. He suspected that Crane had ditched the mask. He pulled out his GPS tracker. There he was; moving down a side street just a block ahead of him. Batman pulled out his grapnel hook and fired it up. It found purchase high up the building on one of the jutting cornices. Retracting the line, he was pulled up above the pedestrians and used his feet to increase his momentum and trajectory in order to swing him around the corner. As he released the line, he shot another in front of him. His feet swung above the heads of the crowd by a mere foot before he ascended once more, keeping his eyes peeled for Crane. If the people below him cringed and ducked, he didn't notice.

A glance down at his tracker kept him on the right path. Crane was darting and dodging, but managed to stay out of sight for another two blocks. When he ran into a parking garage, Batman allowed himself a thin smile. He had the bastard now.

It took a minute to adjust to the dimmer light of the garage. Today was an unusual day in Gotham; no clouds and bright sunshine overhead, most unusual. He listened and checked his GPS again. It was more difficult to follow Crane when he could be moving up or down. Running footsteps . . . Heading . . . down!

_Not smart, Crane_, he thought, his lips relaxing into a something that more closely resembled satisfaction. _This ends today_ . . .

He followed; stopping every now and then to check his GPS and to listen for footsteps or heavy breathing. Crane is moving slower now. Tired? Or is he looking for something? A car, perhaps? Batman kept his senses on high alert in case a car came screeching around the corner in an attempt to run him down. It wouldn't matter, however, nothing would. Batman was going to find Crane; there was nowhere that he could hide that Batman wouldn't find him.

* * *

Dick paced the Batcave.

Normally, he was active and moving; it was really hard for him to sit still if there wasn't a reason for it, like when he and Batman were surveilling a suspect. His lips twitched at the thought. He could remember doing that now; sitting beside Batman and watching for some creep to come to some particular place or to leave another.

He couldn't just a couple of days ago. But now, every day was filled with old memories that resurfaced depending on what he was doing, where he was at the time, what subject was the topic of conversation. If he never remembered something, unless it was brought to his attention, Dick probably wouldn't miss it. He supposed that was a good thing; much better than dwelling on all he might have lost.

His stitches had come out yesterday, and he was continually running his hand through his hair; searching for them . . . Which he admitted was weird, but he had kind of gotten used to them being there all the time. His headaches were almost non-existent now, and the last one he had he thought might have just been a regular one and not related to his injury at all.

He rubbed his forehead . . . He had one now, though. He knew where this one had come from, however, as he glanced back to the computer. It had been some hours since he had first sent out the request for backup for Batman. All they had told him was that his message was received; no confirmation that anyone would actually show up at the address he had given them.

For all that these people were capable of, their interpersonal and communication skills sucked.

"You should eat, Master Dick," Alfred said as he came down the stairs.

"I'm not hungry, but thanks anyway, Alfred," Dick said as he plopped down in Bruce's favorite chair. His chair was smaller to fit him better, but right now Dick wanted to feel closer to him; to Batman. He crossed his legs Indian-style. He could never sit like this in the chair Batman had given him.

"Sir, you haven't eaten breakfast, and it is now closing in on the nooning hour," the butler-cum-everything reminded him. "It does no one any good if you make yourself ill."

Dick glanced up at the clock. It was after eleven already. Where was Batman? Had anyone shown up to help him? "I doubt that I will succumb to some vile plague in the next couple of hours, Alf. I'm good, really," he said, distractedly.

Alfred sighed; it bespoke of a man much familiar with the quirks of his wayward charges. "Perhaps, if I made something light and brought it to you?"

Dick nodded without really listening. He couldn't sit still . . . Jumping up, Dick started pacing.

He had made two circuits of the cave when a movement out of the corner of his eye startled him. Looking up, Dick was surprised to see the spirit standing in a shadowy corner of the cave. Dick hadn't seen the spirit boy for several days and a part of him had thought that maybe he had moved on from this world to the next. But then he remembered that the spirit was linked somehow to him through Crane, and Crane was in the process of being defeated.

Was that why he was here? To say goodbye? Dick smiled and approached the apparition.

The spirit took a step out of the shadows to meet him. His expression was one of fear and apprehension, not contentment. He held his hands out to Dick in supplication.

Dick's heart skipped a beat. "What is it? What's wrong?"

The spirit was so upset, he couldn't communicate at all. He pointed out of the cave and then crossed his hands over his heart. Dick shook his head, not understanding yet. The crossed hands meant love or someone he loved . . .

His eyes widened in alarm. "Bruce?! Did something happen to Bruce?"

The spirit nodded. He looked agitated and ready to cry. Dick felt like his throat was closing; like someone was squeezing his chest. It was panic . . . He knew it; recognized it. He had to put it away though until he knew what was happening. Maybe there was still time.

"Is . . .Is he?" Oh God, he couldn't bring himself to say it. "Is he . . . d-dead?"

The spirit jumped forward, as if to grab him, but stopped just short of touching the boy. He shook his head vigorously.

"No?" Dick panted. Good! This was good! If he wasn't dead, then there was still hope! "He's not dead . . . Not yet?"

The spirit nodded, again with vigor.

There was still a chance then. Dick ran to the changing room. If he could get to him, maybe he could save him, he thought. But just before Dick could enter, the spirit appeared in front of him again. He waved his hands in front of his chest, blocking the way. The spirit shook his head, his eyes wide.

"What? I have to save him," Dick cried out in his distress. "Isn't that why you came? To help me save him?"

The spirit nodded, and pointed behind Dick's shoulder.

He looked and saw only the computer. He shook his head. "I don't understand."

The spirit suddenly appeared in front of the computer with his arms wide, encompassing the machine in its gestures. It pointed to the communication earpiece that Dick had worn while contacting the JLA.

"Can I contact Batman? Is it early enough to stop him from whatever he's doing?" Dick asked.

The spirit shook its head.

"Then who? I already contacted the Justice League. If they couldn't help him . . ."

The spirit smiled and extended his hands out in front of him and . . . floated up into the air.

Dick stared, his mouth open. "Superman."

It came out in a whisper, but the spirit must have heard him because he smiled as he circled above Dick's head.

"But what do I tell him," Dick asked, already picking up the com device and fitting over his ear.

The spirit landed gently beside him. He started gesturing carefully. Dick studied the movements hard. He needed to understand this to better communicate what he needed Superman to do. Batman's life depended on it. His own life as well. Dick was under no illusion as to what might happen to him should his second father follow the path of his first.

* * *

Black Canary stood next to Superman as he spoke with Commissioner Gordon.

"What do you want to do about him?" Gordon nodded in Green Lantern's direction. "The paramedics were hesitant to approach him in his current state."

Superman eyed the agitated, twitching hero. He was in the midst of some pretty vile night terrors at the moment, and might have struck out had one of the paramedics tried to assist him. It was just as well.

"If you leave a vial of the antidote with me, I'll make sure he gets it," he smiled at the commissioner.

"Sure thing, Superman," Gordon handed over the vial with relief. "I had expected Batman to be here."

"When Scarecrow ran, he pursued him," Superman told him. "I'm certain once he apprehends him, Batman will have him delivered to you."

"Very good," Gordon nodded his head. An officer stood nearby in a blatant attempt to gain the commissioner's attention. "Well, I will see about getting this wrapped up. Thank the rest of the Justice League for their assistance as well."

"Of course, Commissioner Gordon. You are very welcome, but this was Batman's case. We are only here to serve as his backup."

Once the Man of Steel turned back to the room at large, Black Canary leaned in to speak with him. She didn't have to. Clark could have heard her speaking from ten blocks away, but habits were hard to break. Nearly every single person she knew would have needed her to lean in, just not the one standing next to her at this moment . . . She leaned in.

"No one's found any trace of Deathstroke or Cheshire. If I hadn't seen both of them myself, I wouldn't have had any clue that they had been here," she told him, quietly.

Superman looked around them. Things appeared to be in order here. It was a banner day for Gotham PD. They had scored a major bust. Of course, those with diplomatic immunity would walk as would the two embarrassed members of the CIA, but most of the rest of them would be facing various charges and prison time or else deportation, depending on their political status.

Lex's assistant, Mercy, didn't slip his eye, however, as she was being led off in a daze. Arrow had told him how Lex had planned to outbid everyone in order to obtain the toxin . . . Toxins! There were two of them now, and the second appeared to be even more deadly than the first.

His comlink chirped. He held up a hand to Canary as he answered it.

"Superman."

Martian Manhunter was on the other end. "Superman, I have an urgent request for you on another frequency."

Clark frowned. He had planned to track down Batman and the Scarecrow. What else had come up that Wonder Woman, Aquaman, and he couldn't handle?

Another chirp indicated Jon had patched the call through.

"Superman? Are you there?"

Robin's voice sounded high with distress. What could have happened that would necessitate his contacting him in this manner?

"Robin? What's the matter? What happened?" He asked, concern for the boy overriding everything else.

"It's Batman! You've got to find him! He's in danger!"

Clark could hear the quavering in child's voice. Whatever happened had him in a panic. "Calm down, Robin, and talk to me. Did Batman contact you?" And why wouldn't he have just contacted Clark himself?

"No, he doesn't know yet that he's in danger."

"Did you talk to him? Try to warn him?"

There was the slightest hesitation. "He needs you, Superman. If you don't go now, he will die. He will _die_!"

The certainty in the boy's voice was all he needed. He lifted off and flew high above the building, using his x-ray vision to search the surrounding streets and buildings. He was following Scarecrow. The madman couldn't have gotten too far away in so short of time. Where were they?

"Superman, you need to listen to me now . . ." Robin said in his ear.

* * *

They were on the lowest level. It seemed darker here than all the previous levels before it, although there was plenty of lighting. It just seemed as though the light was weaker here than it was elsewhere. He was certain it was mostly psychological.

There was nowhere else for Crane to run. The vehicles on this level were fewer. It wasn't difficult to trace the man now. Batman knew exactly where he was hiding. He approached the small congregation of vehicles parked near the wall. It was darker there. Certainly Crane didn't think that Batman was afraid of the dark? After three years, the man had to understand that much about him.

He approached quietly, his GPS tracker giving Crane's exact location. He palmed a light grenade from his belt. He stopped between the back of the van Crane was hiding behind and the wall. With a flick of his wrist, the small grenade flew over the top of the van and burst; an incredibly bright, white light lit up the entire garage. He heard the scrambling and was there when Crane turned the corner of the van and ran into his chest. He bounced back and stumbled, falling to the ground.

Light and shadow played over his features, making the world a surreal place. Batman towered over him. Crane tried to crawl away, but Batman grabbed a handful of shirt and hauled him to his feet.

"Where are you going, _doctor_," he asked. "We have business to take care of, you and I."

"I-I have no business with you," Crane stuttered. His glasses were askew on his face.

Batman had no intention of playing games with words, however. He shook the man like a rag doll.

"How dare you," he growled. "How _**DARE**_ you touch what is mine!"

"I-I . . ." A fist cut off whatever Crane was going to say. Batman wasn't interested in his excuses. There was only one thing he wanted to know; one thing only.

"_What is Robin's fourth trigger_," he roared into Crane's face.

"What? Robin's . . . What?" Crane sputtered, blood coating his mouth.

"_What is Robin's fourth trigger?_" This time the question was punctuated with another fist. "_What is Robin's fourth trigger, damn it_?"

With every time the question was repeated, Batman slammed his fist into the man's face. He lost count of how many times he asked it; how many times he pounded his fist into teeth and nose. He had lost time somewhere, he thought, looking down at the semi-conscious man beneath his hands. Crane's face looked more like hamburger at the moment.

He needed to stop and get a grip on himself. Crane couldn't answer questions unconscious.

Batman kneeled over Crane, straddling the man's body. He lifted the man's head up by his stringy, blond hair. Ignoring the gurgling and whistling he was making, Batman growled into his face another time.

"_What the _**_fuck_**_ is Robin's fourth trigger_?"

Crane coughed, spraying blood across the Dark Knight face. He blinked owlishly; limp and helpless after his beating.

"Th-the . . . F-fourth trig-ger . . ." he moaned. "The fourth . . . t-trigger is . . . is . . ."

Batman narrowed his eyes. He was so focused on interpreting whatever was about to come out of the man's mouth that he almost didn't notice the sting. He reached up and slapped at his neck; that one vulnerable spot where his cowl met his uniform. He pulled his hand down and stared, confused, at the tiny dart that lay between his fingers. He turned disbelieving eyes on the quivering mess that lay beneath him.

"You . . ." Batman gasped.

Crane had brought up his other hand, and the flashing light caught and held his attention; the filter of his lenses doing nothing to mitigate its intensity. The man, the van, the wall of the garage . . . The world ceased to exist at that moment. All that was had been condensed down into the flashing light.

* * *

"One more test, Batman," Crane slurred around thick lips and broken teeth. "Just one more little experiment," he crooned as he slipped his free hand into his pocket and pulling out the vocalizer.

It wasn't much . . . Just a couple of inches long. Hardly a weapon to the uneducated eye. But it produced just the right tone at just the right frequency that, when used in conjunction with the Death by Stroke drug he had just injected into the entranced Bat, would set the trigger in place.

Just a word . . . That was all it would take and Batman would be dead before he hit the ground. Completely inelegant, of course. Crane didn't particularly care for this toxin. It had all the grace of a bullet to the brain, but it did the job, and it did it well. Efficiency over art.

Oh, well . . . Crane would have preferred the Bat die an artistic death, but he was feeling a little pressed for time. He needed to get to Metropolis and speak with Mr. Luthor. Later, he would have the ability to indulge himself in the art of science, and the world would be his canvas . . . or his petri dish. The giggle that escaped him startled him.

He lifted the vocalizer to his throat, careful to place it above his Adam's apple, just so . . .

The metal burned his fingers and Crane yelped as he dropped it. It hit his throat, causing another yip to escape him, before rolling off onto the pavement.

_Damn it_!

He pushed at the Caped Crusader, and jumped when his strobe cracked and went out. What the _hell_?

It didn't matter, he thought, trying to scoot out from under Batman. He could construct another one with Luthor's money of better material. The Dark Knight would remain in his trance for another three to five minutes after the strobe was shut off. He still had time to place the trigger and Batman would be dead of a massive stroke in another couple of minutes.

He was patting the ground beneath him when he was suddenly lifted completely off of the ground. _What_?

He barely had time to register the "S" symbol before the fist connecting with his face closed the curtains on his consciousness. He slumped without fully realizing that his plans had been foiled.

* * *

Superman placed Crane on the ground less than gently. He bent and picked up the tiny piece of metal. This was what Robin had been trying to articulate to him. He held it up, scanning it. He didn't pretend to understand the microscopic technology that it contained, and if he had anything to say about it, and he did, neither would anyone else.

He crushed it between his fingers.

Clark carefully set Batman against the concrete wall. He was completely unresponsive. Clark waved a hand in front of the cowl with no reaction. How long was he supposed to be like this, he wondered, feeling a little out of his depth.

He snapped his fingers a few times.

"Batman," he called. "Can you hear me?"

Clark was getting nervous enough to consider removing the cowl or at least taking him to a hospital when Batman inhaled sharply. He looked around, obviously confused.

"Superman? What are you doing here?" He looked around Superman's shoulders to see Crane lying prone on the ground.

"What? Did I . . . I didn't, did I?" Batman stammered.

He started to get up, but Clark pushed him back down.

"Whoa, take it easy there," he told him. "Crane's not going anywhere. And no," he answered Batman's question. "You didn't. In fact, when I showed up, I believe he was in the process of giving you a trigger."

He couldn't see it, well, he could if he wanted to, but he thought Batman might have blinked. "I stopped him before he could, though. And it didn't take much more than a tap to put him out like a light."

"How did you know? Did you follow me," Batman asked.

"I thought about it, but no, I didn't follow you," Clark admitted. "A little bird told me I needed to find you. He was pretty insistent, too, although I don't understand how he knew what was going on. If he hadn't told me about the little metal device that imparted the trigger, I might have been too late."

Batman frowned. He had only just found out about the device himself tonight. He gasped, wondering if the last trigger was the second toxin after all. He had thought not, but how else would Robin had known about it?

"_No_!" Batman shoved Clark out of his way and scrambled over to the downed criminal. He turned Crane over, fisting his shirt in his hands, and yelled into his face.

"Wake up, you bastard! _Wake up_!" he roared. "_Tell me what Robin's fourth trigger is_!"

Clark blinked. "He didn't tell you?"

The guy was a bloody pulp! How had he withstood that? He knew men a lot tougher than Scarecrow that spilled their guts at even the threat of a Batman beat down.

"Not yet, but _he_ _will_," Batman promised.

"Wait." He placed a hand on Batman's shoulder. "I have an idea. One that won't result in permanent brain damage or death."

* * *

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**An extra chapter is required . . . Three (?) more to go? Oh, this is going to be sooo good! **


	53. Checkmate

**Warning: Language . . .**

* * *

Batman looked down at Crane. He was zipcuffed to a chair in the conference room in the Watchtower. He had yet to awaken from the last blow that Superman had given him, and he was getting impatient; tired of listening to the man's snores whistling from his broken septum. Every minute that passed was a threat to Dick's life, and he wanted to know the last trigger so Jon could eradicate it.

The boy had been cooped up as long as he could stand it. There were still rooms in the manor that had been forbidden to him in fear that one of them contained the last trigger. The physical limitations were hard enough for him to deal with, but with the mental limitations added on top of that; it was driving the boy stir crazy. He worried that Dick would eventually lose it and go out on his own, if only to breathe freely, and expose himself unwittingly to the trigger. Without him or Alfred around, he would die . . . Within five minutes of trigger activation, he would die.

A growl escaped his throat at the thought, causing those closest to him to glance nervously in his direction.

"How much longer," he barked, his irritation getting the better of him.

He should probably feel bad. Most of those in the room had come to his aid at Robin's request without a second thought. Their help had allowed him to go after Crane immediately. Without their help, he didn't know if all would have gone as smoothly as he had planned or not, but if he had to take care of the people in the room before chasing after Crane, it was entirely possible that Scarecrow would have escaped him yet again.

"It would be better if he were awake first," J'onn told him patiently . . . again.

The door slid open and Green Lantern entered. He was out of bed fairly quickly, all considering, but unusually subdued. No witless or egotistical remarks were spilling from his empty head. He had warned Lantern that Scarecrow was no pushover. The man had an 'I told you so' coming, but seeing his contrition and remembering his own experiences under the influence of the gas, Batman kept his sarcasm to himself. He had also come at Robin's request, despite being bested by the boy a couple of days earlier. Perhaps, Jordan wasn't as shallow and as narcissistic as he led others to believe.

Batman shook his head. He was getting downright maudlin in his sentimentality. He stepped over to Crane, and before anyone could move to stop him, slapped him.

"Batman!" Superman flew over the table to land beside him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not killing him," he told him. "Just assisting him back to consciousness."

"Could you try to assist him without hitting him," Wonder Woman suggested.

"Where's the fun in that," Arrow snarked from his seat near the door. His booted feet were crossed on the table.

"This isn't meant to be fun, Arrow," Wonder Woman reminded him.

Arrow smirked. "Well, that's good to know because it doesn't look like Crane's been enjoying himself thus far."

Batman rolled his eyes at the banter. He pulled a capsule of ammonia out of his belt, held it up to Crane's nose, and broke it. The man was snorting and sputtering in seconds; his eyelids rising and giving Crane his first and last view of the Watchtower.

Everyone's eyes turned to them.

"Wha? What happened? Oooh, my head," he slurred, painfully.

"Wake up, Crane! Your head won't be the only place hurting if you don't answer my question," Batman warned him forcefully. "What is Robin's fourth trigger?"

Crane raised his head and narrowed his eyes at what was turning out to be his greatest nemesis. "You need to get better questions," he muttered.

Batman lips pulled back as he snarled; his fist drew back ready to pummel when Superman caught his arm. Batman spun on his 'friend', his rage ready to transfer to another target.

"Get off of me," he snapped, shoving ineffectively at the Kryptonian.

Superman took a measured step back, slowly releasing Batman's arm; letting him know that everything he did was by choice. As warnings go, it was adequate in getting his point across, even to an angry Bat.

Crane watched the action between the two men, cataloging and filing away bits of information about the two of them in his head. His swollen lips slid up into a parody of a smile.

"What are you smiling about, Crow," Green Lantern asked. Although his fist remained at his side, his ring flared; a reflection of his temper.

"That would be _Scare_crow to you, and, seriously, can't a man be in a good mood without someone questioning it," he asked the room at large.

Green Arrows feet hit the floor. He didn't rise, but leaned forward, his hands fisting on the table. "You're at the uncertain mercies of the Justice League, asshole," he snapped. "If you think this is good thing, then you've been misinformed."

"Have I? Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, then," Crane said, deliberately provoking the green archer.

"As a matter of fact . . ." Arrow stood up, one hand reaching toward his quiver.

"Arrow, stand down," Superman ordered.

Arrow's lips tightened and his jaw clenched, but he sat down.

Crane's eyes sparkled and his smile grew wider, despite pulling at the newly-made scabs that covered his lips.

"Enough of this," Batman snarled again. "Answer me, or I'll make sure you regret it. _What is Robin's fourth trigger_?"

"Regret it? How exactly would you do that," Crane asked flippantly. Despite being surrounded by more heroes than he had ever seen at one time, he was incredibly self-possessed. "Are you going to hit me some more?"

Batman narrowed his eyes. No, he wasn't, and it was becoming obvious that Crane knew that. It looked like Superman's plan was going to be necessary after all. He took a step back and nodded to the Boy Scout.

"You were right," he conceded. "Let's not waste any more time."

Crane looked between them again, this time it was confusion instead of good humor that crossed his face.

Superman looked down the table where Wonder Woman, Martian Manhunter, and Flash all stood. "If you would be so kind . . .?"

Wonder Woman walked up to Crane and held up her lasso. "Do you know what this is, little man?"

Frowning, Crane didn't bother answering.

"It is called the Lasso of Truth," she explained, uncoiling it. "It compels anyone caught in it to tell the truth."

Crane just stared at her. His eyes appeared to glaze over even as she spoke. He made no attempt to avoid her or squirm as she draped the golden rope around his shoulders.

"Now, answer my question," she commanded. "What is Robin's fourth trigger?"

"_Pretty robin red breast  
singing in the tree,  
Where did you hide in winter,  
so far away from me?"_

"What the hell," Arrow exclaimed. "Is he trying to say that a poem about a robin is Robin's final trigger?"

"No," Batman said, growing suspicious. "Wonder Woman, ask him again."

"The Lasso of Truth compels you, Jonathon Crane, to answer my question. What is Robin's fourth trigger?" Wonder Woman tugged the lasso tighter as if that would make a difference.

"_I have a Bird in spring  
Which for myself doth sing –  
The spring decoys.  
And as the summer nears –  
And as the Rose appears,  
Robin is gone."_

"I don't get it," Flash said, zipping around to face the man.

"That one is the first stanza of an Emily Dickenson poem about a Robin," Superman informed them.

"What about the first poem? Is it also by Emily Dickenson," Batman asked. The answer might be the poet's name.

Superman shook his head. "I think I remember hearing the first one, but it isn't by Emily Dickenson. It's another poet, but the name slips my mind."

"Ask him again," Batman ordered.

"What is Robin's fourth trigger? Speak to us the truth," Wonder Woman demanded.

"_Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best,  
The pious Bird with the scarlet breast,  
Our little English Robin,"_ Crane intoned monotonously.

"William Wordsworth," Batman answered this time. "The Redbreast and the Butterfly."

"Look at his face," Canary said. "It's like he's in some kind of trance."

J'onn nodded. "He has placed himself into a hypnotic trance. Quite ingenious. I had no idea that such a thing would allow someone to withstand the compulsion of the Lasso."

Wonder Woman pulled the golden rope from Crane, and looping onto her belt. "Nor did I," she said, frowning at the implications. "This isn't something that we want to get around."

"But how did he know to do this," Canary asked. "How could he know that you would ask Wonder Woman to use her lasso on him?"

"He didn't," Batman said. "He probably prepared for this after I had rescued Robin. I doubt he had any clue that Wonder Woman would be the one asking the questions. If this worked, it was merely chance. He might have used it earlier during my questioning had he felt desperate enough."

"How the hell did he not feel desperate until now," Flash asked. "You really did a number on his face."

"He had something else he had planned to fall back on," Batman intoned. "Unfortunately for him, he was interrupted and his plan didn't work."

"But that doesn't get us any closer to finding Robin's last trigger," Arrow added.

"Oh, we aren't out of options yet," Superman declared. "J'onn? It's your turn."

Martian Manhunter stepped behind Crane and rested his hands on either side of his temples. "What is Robin's fourth trigger?" he murmured as he delved into Crane's subconscious.

The rest of the League waited in silence. They had no idea how long it would take for the Martian to sort through the psychosis of Crane's disturbed thoughts and find the information that was so desperately needed in order to give Robin back his freedom. The time it took was certainly no longer than a few minutes to get a dramatic reaction from both the psychiatrist and the telepath.

Crane gasped and arched his back. J'onn echoed his harsh breath and fell back with a groan. Crane collapsed forward in his chair; only his cuffs keeping him from falling into a heap onto the floor. J'onn was caught between Superman and Wonder Woman who helped the Martian to a nearby chair.

"J'onn! What happened?" Flash zipped over with a bottle of water.

"Did you get it," Batman asked; his mind ever on the goal. "Were you able to find the fourth trigger?"

Canary crouched before Crane, examining him while everyone was circling around J'onn. She looked into his eyes and felt his pulse.

"We need to get Crane to the medical bay," she said, already removing his zipcuffs. "His eyes are contracted and non-responsive. J'onn? What happened?"

J'onn waved everyone away. "He blocked me."

"What?" Lantern gaped. "Is that even possible?"

"Obviously it is," the Martian said. "Despite his psychosis, his mind is incredibly strong. He was prepared. How he could have possibly have foreseen my involvement, I cannot fathom, but he was prepared for having information forcibly removed."

Superman frowned. "So, are you saying that there is no way to force the information out of him?"

It was with enormous regret that J'onn met Batman's gaze. "To try to forcibly remove the information would destroy his mind."

Batman clenched his jaw. "Then do it," he snarled.

Everyone looked at the Dark Knight; some with surprise at his ruthlessness, but most with understanding.

'_J'onn, you can't_,' Superman thought at the telepath. He didn't want to hurt Batman by disagreeing openly, but he couldn't assent to this.

J'onn made no indication that he had heard the Kryptonian. His gaze remained upon the one person in the room with the most to lose. "Batman, I am sorry," he began.

"_DON'T_!" Batman slashed the air sharply with his hand. "Don't apologize to me . . . J'onn, it isn't for me that I ask this of you."

"You don't understand, my friend," J'onn told him sympathetically.

"_NO_!" he came forward and gripped the arms of the chair the alien was sitting in.

If it was for the sake of intimidation, it appeared ridiculous since the Martian was several inches taller than the man and outweighed him by a several stones. But it became obvious that wasn't what the Dark Knight intended.

"J'onn," his gravelly voice even harsher with barely repressed emotion. "_Please_! I'm asking you for _Robin_ . . ." he swallowed. "Don't do this to him, please! He – he deserves a life; some semblance of normality." Batman's voice rose in anger. "_Don't let that bastard win_!"

"This isn't about winning," J'onn spoke to him softly. "We would destroy not only his mind, but quite possibly the very information we seek. If that happens, then all hope would be lost."

The muscles in Batman's jaw clenched, and after a moment, they released. When he spoke again, his voice was strained, but normal. "What . . . What are the odds that we would lose the information?"

"Too great," J'onn told him.

"The _odds_, J'onn," he insisted.

The Martian sighed. "Ninety-three percent."

Batman's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stood then, and turned away. He walked silently out the door. It was the closest anyone had ever come to seeing Batman beg . . . And as uncomfortable as it had been to witness, so was the discomfort in not granting his request.

* * *

"Should someone go after him," Flash asked the room at large.

Superman was watching as his friend stumbled into another room and sank to the floor. When Batman shoved his cowl back, he covered his face in his hands and his shoulders began to shake, Superman turned his face away; leaving his friend to his grief. His own heart clenched in a pain that was equaled only to that he found when exposed to kryptonite.

"Leave him alone," he told them.

Superman turned to source of all their troubles, and sighed. Crane was drooling.

"I'll take him to the authorities," he said. "Let them deal with him."

"Is that it, then? There isn't anything else we can do?" Lantern glanced around the room, his anger and frustration reflected in the faces of everyone present. "What's Robin supposed to do? Just give up?"

J'onn sat up from where he had slumped upon feeling Batman's overwhelming despair. "No," he declared. "I have treated the boy once as a general treatment against the lethality of the fourth trigger. I can try again, and perhaps give him a fighting chance. There is no guarantee, but I agree that it would be far worse for him to be forever insulated from the world on the off chance that his trigger might be activated. The likelihood that Scarecrow would have made the last trigger something so mundane that he would easily succumb after the first three is slender at best."

Arrow frowned at him. "Do you really believe that?"

"I have no choice but to believe that, my friend," J'onn said. "And neither does young Robin. I doubt the boy will be willing to give up, and neither shall I."

"So, who's going to tell the Bat," Arrow asked.

No one made a motion. He sighed. "Okay, okay," Arrow said. "I guess I can do it. But you all _do_ realize that he doesn't exactly like me, right?"

Lantern snorted. "He likes me a whole lot less."

"Good point," Arrow agreed and turned to follow Superman, who was carrying Crane over his shoulder, out the door.

* * *

**REACTIONS? **

**Don't kill me . . . **

**The first poem is the first stanza of "Pretty Robin Redbreast" and was written by Sue K. Green. The other two were credited to their respective poets, Emily Dickenson and William Wordsworth. Of course, I own nothing . . . **


	54. Nothing By Halves

**No Warnings . . .**

* * *

Dick pretended to be asleep in the hopes that Bruce would leave the room. The man was taking the news harder than he was. Instead of leaving, Bruce leaned forward and brushed the hair away from Dick's forehead.

"I'm so sorry, Dick," he whispered. "I should have protected you better. If I had just left you home that night . . ."

It was all Dick could do not to open his eyes and comfort the man. It wasn't his fault. Although he couldn't remember what happened and how Crane had gotten a hold of him, he couldn't blame Bruce. He couldn't blame Batman either. He had signed on for this fully aware of the dangers. Some people might believe that an eight year old wouldn't understand what the word danger entailed, but he hadn't been a normal eight year old. That didn't change when he turned nine and Batman started taking him out on patrols, and it didn't change anything now.

"I'm not giving up, son," Bruce promised him. "Neither is J'onn. We will do everything we can to fight this; everything we can to discover this last trigger."

With that promise lingering in the silent air, Bruce leaned over and pressed his lips to the boy's forehead. The action startled the boy's eyes open, but Bruce had already turned away, heading for the door. After the door had closed behind him, Dick sat up in bed.

"Goodnight, Dad," he whispered.

He looked around the room, searching out a familiar shadow. The spirit had disappeared shortly after Superman had taken his call. He hadn't seen him since, but Dick needed him now. One more time . . .

"Are you there," he called out. "Please, come out. I need to talk to you."

After several minutes, Dick was getting ready to give up when a movement from the corner caught his eye. The spirit stepped into the light. He appeared far more insubstantial than he ever had before. Did this mean he was finally going away?

"They couldn't discover the last trigger," Dick told him.

The spirit nodded.

"Will we ever . . .? Discover it, I mean?"

The spirit nodded, although he looked a little sad.

"Will it kill me?" He whispered the question.

The spirit was still for a long time; his head tilted in a way that indicated he was listening to something. Dick sat as patiently as he could, but eventually he crawled to the foot of his bed. He sat on his knees, close enough that he could reach out and, well, if not touch him, at least be able to pass a hand through him.

"Will it kill me?" He asked again. "Are you allowed to tell me?"

The spirit turned back to him, his mouth pursed in thought. He held up two fingers.

Dick thought about it for a moment, then said, "Second question. Are you allowed to tell me?"

The spirit shook his head.

Dick thought about it a little more. "Okay, so it might or might not kill me. Can you tell me if I should worry about it? If I walk out the front door will I drop over dead?"

A second pause, and then the spirit gave a small smile; shaking his head.

Dick smiled. "That's good to know. If I go to school, should I worry about it?"

The spirit smiled, made as if to look behind him, and then shook his head.

Dick grinned now. "So, basically, I can live my life without worrying overmuch that I could keel over. Right?"

The spirit nodded slowly, if a little hesitantly.

Now the hard part. "And if I resume my duties as Robin? Will I need to worry about the last trigger?"

The spirit frowned and looked away for a moment. When he looked back at Dick, he was biting his lip, appearing disconcerted. He acted like he was taking a breath, but the spirit was long past needing to breathe. He had made a decision of some sort.

Dick had already made his own assumption. "I will find the last trigger as Robin, won't I?"

The spirit waved his hand as if throwing something far away.

"What's that mean?" Dick scrunched up his face in confusion. "Throwing something . . . a long way . . ." The spirit nodded. "Far away?" The spirit nodded again.

"I won't find the trigger until a long time from now," Dick asked carefully.

The spirit smiled and nodded.

"How long?"

The spirit mimed the same action once, twice, and then again for a third time.

"A very, very, _very_ long time from now?"

The spirit smiled, but before he could do anything else, the door to Dick's room opened, and Bruce walked in with a cup of coffee.

"Who are you talking to, son?" Bruce glanced around the room curiously.

Dick jumped. He had been concentrating so hard on what the spirit was trying to tell him that he hadn't heard Bruce at all. When he looked back, however, the spirit was gone, almost as if he was never there.

"Dick?" Bruce was watching him suspiciously.

"Bruce," he said. "I want to go back to school on Monday."

Bruce blinked at the change in subject. "Do you? I'm not so certain that is a good idea right now, chum. Actually, Alfred and I were thinking that, maybe, we might consider homeschooling for a while. Or we could bring in a tutor for you."

"But . . . I _want_ to go to school," Dick frowned.

"Dick, you need to realize that it might not be safe for you, anymore" Bruce sat down in the chair next to the bed again. "And it might be a good idea if you have another couple of sessions with J'onn first, I think. Just to be on the safe side, before you go running off on more adventures."

"That's okay. We can still do the sessions, but I want to go back to school," he continued to insist; if only to keep Bruce from pursuing the subject of who he had been talking to. "I've missed so much already that it will take me a month to catch up with my class."

"Your fourth trigger could still . . ."

"It won't," he interrupted; moving closer and sitting on the side of the bed.

"Dick, the trigger could . . ."

"It _won't_, Bruce," he told him; leaning forward enough to place a hand on the man's knee. "It won't."

Bruce set down his cup on the nightstand and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He had hoped to have a little more time before it came down to this. He knew the boy was fairly chomping at the bit to get out of the house, but those attacks were still fresh in Bruce's mind. Watching the video Crane had shown to his buyers had brought it all back, as if he could ever forget . . .

"Dick, I don't think you understand fully the seriousness of this. You don't actually remember going through those trigger activations . . ."

"I understand just fine," Dick huffed. "But the danger has passed."

"_**No**, _**Dick! The danger has **_not_ passed," Bruce told him; his voice rising. He stopped, and took a deep breath. He moved over to sit by Dick on the bed. "Until we know what the fourth trigger is, we cannot guard against it. And unless Crane tells us what it is, we won't know unless or until it activates. Which means, that if you are out when it happens, the chances of you getting the medical treatment you will need to survive it are slim to none."

Dick squirmed until he was facing him.

"Bruce," he began. "It's no different than my going out as Robin." He saw Bruce gearing up to argue, but Dick pressed on faster. "It _isn't_. We both know that by going out, it could mean that one or both of us wouldn't be coming back. It could be a bullet or a knife, equipment failure, or anything!"

"That's why we train," Bruce said, shaking his head. "That's why we go over the equipment on a regular basis. We hedge our bets, Dick, and place the odds distinctly in our favor. What you are talking about isn't the same thing."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take!"

"**_Well, I'm not_**," Bruce yelled, startling both of them. In a calmer voice, he repeated it. "I'm not, Dick, not with your life. I-I can't." he said. "If anything were to happen to you . . . It would not be a good thing. Not for anybody, but particularly not for . . . me."

They were silent for a long time. Dick watched with wide eyes as Bruce worked to get himself under control. He had turned his face away in an attempt to hide the power of his emotions, but Dick could still see the glisten of tears on the man's face. Dick had never seen Bruce's feelings so close to the surface before. At least, he couldn't remember a time anyway. Despite any potential missing memories, Dick was pretty positive that this was a singular event in their lives; that emotionally, Bruce was more like Batman than not.

But this was it. Dick knew, if he allowed the fear to rule them, that these past couple of weeks would be his life; hiding away, afraid to live. He had to change Bruce's mind now . . . tonight. Morning would be too late. Bruce's fear would be set in concrete by then.

He scooted over until his legs were touching Bruce's. He laid a hand on his chest.

"Bruce," he began, and then paused, wanting to be sure he had the man's attention."_Dad_? I love you, you know that, right?

"No, it's okay," Dick said quickly when Bruce startled. "I know you aren't John Grayson. I know you aren't actually my father, but I think I have room enough for the both of you in here," he tapped his own chest. "You've taken his place in my heart without replacing him. I think he knows that, and I think he'd be okay with it because maybe . . . maybe you might love me a little bit, too?"

He hadn't meant to make that last bit into a question, but Dick wasn't as positive as he would like to be about it. He thought that maybe Bruce did love him. At times he was absolutely certain of it, but without the words to lend credence to his hopes, they were still only just assumptions of his part. He waited, but after a minute, Dick sighed. He could feel the words hovering there between them, but the man wasn't ready to say them yet. He went on.

"I-I think that you want what is best for me," he said slowly. "I mean, I know you don't want me to be unhappy. Bruce, _please_ understand . . . I can't **_live_** like this. I can't live always hiding; always being afraid. I can't do it! I'd rather live life fully, even if it's for a short time, than to live a long half life because, you realize, don't you, that half a life also means that you are half dead."

Bruce looked at him at that.

"Dad, I've **_never_** done anything half way," he whispered.

For a long while, neither of them said anything. Dick didn't have any more arguments. It was up to Bruce now. He was a little nervous watching the tic in Bruce's jaw, but eventually the man reached over and slid a hand through the boy's hair and down until he cupped the child's neck in his palm.

"You **_don't_** do things by halves, do you?" Bruce said. It was a statement, however, rather than a question. He sighed. "We'll go see J'onn tomorrow, and then it's back to school on Monday."

Dick grinned, and threw himself into the man's arms. If Bruce hugged him a bit too tightly, he wasn't going to complain. Instead he snuggled in closer and relished the comfort; purposely ignoring the quiet desperation that lay beneath it.

"Now, about Robin . . ." Dick murmured against his shoulder.

Bruce growled, and then laughed; falling back onto the bed and rolling over, so that he was leaning over the boy. He started tickling the child until they collapsed laughing. The sudden release of two weeks of stress had left them both exhausted. When Dick's eyes began to droop, Bruce yanked the comforter over the top of them; settling into the first restful sleep he had had since this nightmare began.

He luxuriated in it, knowing that it would likely be the last one he would have for a long, long time.

* * *

**Reactions?**

**Robin will come in due time . . . Dick's got to ease Bruce back into this. No, he still hasn't explained how he knew about Batman being in danger yet. He hasn't explained who he's talking to yet either. He might not, preferring to leave it a mystery just to drive Bruce a little bonkers. We'll see. **


	55. For A Very, Very, Very Long Time

**No Warnings . . .**

* * *

"So, you suspect that Scarecrow himself is the fourth trigger, sir?" Alfred stood behind Master Bruce as he watched more footage that someone had taken of Batman swinging above the streets of Gotham at noon the previous day.

"You have to admit, Alfred, that it makes perfect sense," he murmured, tapping his chin with steepled fingers. "Crane is egotistical enough to make himself the object which would bring about Robin's demise."

"Are you going to have Mr. Manhunter search for that as a trigger then?"

"Yes, as soon as we get to the Watchtower." Bruce said.

The news channel posted Crane's picture next to one of him as the Scarecrow, as the reporter went on with the story. At that moment, Dick burst into the room.

"Bruce! Bruce! You're on the news! Turn it to . . ." Dick slid to a stop in his socked feet, as he glanced at the television. "Oh, wait, they changed the picture! Did you see it, though?"

Bruce jumped the minute Dick entered the room; fumbling with the remote in order to change the channel before dropping it. The remote tumbled under the coffee table. He leapt for the boy, in an effort to shield him from the picture on the screen. He spun Dick around to face him, panic gripping him as he searched for sign of trigger activation.

Alfred stopped at the crash cart that was parked in one corner of the room. He glanced hesitantly over his shoulder when he realized that there was no screaming or gasping coming from the direction of the sofa.

"Is Master Dick all right, sir?" He asked.

Dick blinked at him, wide-eyed, at his reaction. He looked over his shoulder just in case they showed the video of Batman again. Bruce looked from the boy to the screen that was still displaying both images of Crane and his Scarecrow persona. He paused.

"How do you feel, Dick?" Bruce asked cautiously. "Does that picture of Scarecrow bother you?"

"What?" Dick looked again.

He hadn't even noticed the likenesses on the screen until Bruce had mentioned them. He gasped and paled. Scooting closer to Bruce, he pulled his guardian's arms around him. A whimper sounded, but no screams issued forth. He turned and buried his face in Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce let his breath out in relief but was equally filled with dismay. He had been positive that Scarecrow was the boy's last trigger. He rubbed the boy's back, but knew that this reaction was nothing more than normal after the trauma he had been through.

"Nothing, Alfred," he said. "I-I guess I was wrong, then. Scarecrow isn't the final trigger. Dick, what were you thinking, running in here like that?"

Dick pulled back and looked up at him. "You thought that Scarecrow was my trigger?"

"It made sense, chum. But now we're back to square one again," He rubbed his hands up and down the boy's arms, knowing that Dick responded to physical comfort best. "I was so certain."

"Maybe you can still have J'onn do a general sweep of anything Scarecrow related," Dick proposed.

"I can suggest it, chum, but if you had no reaction to the photo on the TV, then it is likely a dead end."

"That's not going to prevent me from going to school tomorrow, is it?" The boy looked worried.

Bruce sighed. "No, it's not."

He still didn't like it, but he had promised him in a weak moment. Part of him wanted nothing more than to wrap the boy up in cotton and lock him away somewhere safe. Unfortunately, that would only accomplish in smothering the child slowly. If he had learned nothing else since Dick had come to live here at the manor, it was that he couldn't be contained for any length of time.

"Go and change into your uniform. We have another session to get through, chum," Bruce told him, giving him a push in the direction of the door.

* * *

"Did Robin tell you how he knew you were in trouble?" Superman asked.

"He said you knew what was going on," Batman answered with a frown.

Superman shook his head slowly. "I was busy with Commissioner Gordon and containing Jordan in an effort to keep him from destroying the theater. Robin contacted _me_. He was the one who told me you were in danger and how to save you."

"But how could he know the details about the second toxin? From what I understand now, Crane didn't even develop it until after Robin was rescued. I had thought that maybe he had heard about it before I reached him, but all the evidence says otherwise." Batman said as he leaned back in his chair at the conference table.

Superman held up his hands in front of him. "I promise you, Bruce, **_I _**knew nothing about the second toxin until Robin told me about it. I don't know how _he_ knew about it, though, unless someone else told him." At the look on his friend's face, he asked, "What is it?"

"I've overheard Robin talking to someone last night," Batman told him.

"Really? Who was it?"

"That was the problem," he said. "There was no one in the room with him when I entered."

"Did he have a communicator? Cell phone?" Superman asked. When Batman shook his head, he continued, helplessly. "Tin can and a string?"

"No, Clark. There was no one there; no cell phone, no communicator, no tin can," Batman insisted. "This wasn't the first time it has happened either. I've heard him talking to thin air at least two other times. Alfred has admitted to overhearing him on several occasions as well. He hadn't found anyone either."

Superman shrugged. "A lot of kids have imaginary friends . . ." At the Bat's disbelieving look, he admitted, "Or so I've heard. And Dick doesn't seem exactly the type to resort to fantasy. Could he just be talking out loud to himself?"

Batman shook his head. "No," he said, discarding both of those ideas. The first was, quite frankly, ridiculous, and the second unlikely based upon what he overheard. "It sounded like one half of a conversation to me."

"Surely you have some theory of what is going on?" Superman was frowning now.

"Not a clue," Batman gritted out. "Unless it was someone invisible."

"True invisibility is impossible. Even Martian Manhunter cannot achieve it. He warps light around him somehow in order to achieve his camouflage effect. But if you know what to watch for, it is possible to locate him even when he is camo mode." Superman rubbed a hand on his jaw as he met Batman's gaze. "I don't suppose you noticed anything like that."

"I saw nothing," he growled. "And I _was_ looking."

"What did Dick say when you asked him?"

"He said he was thinking aloud once; 'nothing' once; and then last night he changed the subject." Batman snorted, remembering how well Dick had managed to turn his mind to another topic.

"And you don't believe him. . . ." Superman said.

"I don't know what to believe," he said, being absolutely honest.

"Are you going to confront him with it?"

Batman sighed. "I don't know. I keep thinking that it might be related to his head injury or maybe to the fact that his heart literally stopped seven different times last week."

Superman frowned at that. "Oh, that's a disturbing thought. What does Leslie say?"

"Truthfully, it's slipped my mind the last few times we've spoken. There have just been so many other things we've needed to discuss that overhearing a couple of odd sentences just didn't seem important enough to remember. But I should bring it up next time." Batman sighed.

"You know, it could be nothing," Superman suggested. "You are still right in the middle of your DaddyBats mode so worrying about every little thing is your default setting."

"My _what_ mode?" Batman looked at him like he was crazy.

Superman smirked, and then gave it up and laughed outright. "Sorry," he said. "It's just something that Hal had called you at one point last week. It seemed like a fitting description at the time. I guess the name stuck in my mind."

"Hm," he grunted. "So long as it stays in your mind rather than on your lips."

Superman laughed again, and the tension seemed to ease somewhat.

"He's going back to school tomorrow," Batman said.

The Man of Steel grimaced, his laughter cut short. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I think it's a _terrible_ idea," he told him. "But Dick is adamant about it. He's got major cabin fever after two weeks of being restricted to here or just a couple of rooms in the manor. He swears that the trigger won't be a problem for him. He said he couldn't live like that."

"Like what?"

"Hiding and afraid. He told me that a half life is the same as being half dead, and he would rather live fully for a short time than the other way for a long time." Batman shook his head, remembering that conversation. "The trouble is that I can't actually fault him for thinking like that."

"He's only ten, Bruce," Superman said. "He doesn't exactly have the kind of life experience to make that sort of decision for himself."

Batman tilted his head, staring at him. "Seriously, Clark? This is the same child that, at eight, told me he would either join me fighting criminals, or that he would do it on his own. Dick isn't exactly your typical ten-year old."

Superman blew out a long, exasperated breath. "Point taken."

"I've ordered AEDs for every classroom at his school, and arranged for the staff and faculty to be trained in how to use them," Batman told him with a sigh of his own. "It's the best I can do for him."

The door slid open and the topic of conversation flew into the room almost as if someone had turned the artificial gravity off.

"Uncle Clark!"

Robin did a flip onto the table, followed by a couple of forward handsprings, and then leapt high into the air. Right on cue, Clark was there to meet him. He spun the boy around as he hovered several feet above the floor to the sounds of childish laughter before he settled back into his chair. After bestowing a super hug onto his pseudo-uncle, Robin squirmed down to rush Batman.

Batman caught the exuberant child in his arms, accepting his hug patiently. After a minute, the boy relaxed onto his lap.

"What's brought this on?" Batman asked. "You are full of energy all of a sudden. I thought your sessions usually made you tired?"

"Oh, that ended a little while ago. J'onn let me nap in the medical bay afterwards. I feel fine now," Robin explained.

Martian Manhunter entered the room at that point. He nodded greetings to both of his colleagues. "Robin did remarkably well. I think he is as ready as he ever will be to meet the world on his own terms."

"I asked him to look for scarecrows," Robin whispered to Batman loudly.

Batman looked up at J'onn, interested to see what the Martian had discovered. "And? Did you find anything, J'onn?"

"I did find an area of interest, but it didn't have tendrils leading to the boy's medulla as the other triggers did," J'onn told them.

"What does that mean exactly?" Batman asked.

"It means that it is different enough that I don't believe it will be an issue. I did take the liberty of shrinking the area a bit, but I was afraid to do more than that since it bore only the vaguest resemblance to the other triggers. I think Robin is as protected as he can expect to be based off of what we know," J'onn said. "He is as safe as I can make him."

Batman stood up, letting Robin slither down his side to the floor. He held out his hand to the alien. "Thank you, J'onn . . . for everything."

J'onn smiled slightly as he watched Robin climb back onto Superman's lap in an obviously blatant attempt to convince the hero to fly him about the room.

"You are both welcome," he said. "I am pleased that I could help. I wish I could have done more by finding the last trigger, but I think what we accomplished today will suffice in place of a cure."

"Well, it was very much appreciated . . . by the _both_ of us," Batman added; raising his voice and emphasizing the word '_both_'.

As expected, Robin noticed and chimed in. "Oh, yeah! thanks, J'onn!" The boy squealed as Superman tossed him into the air, almost to the ceiling, and caught him again. He giggled. "Thank you a lot!"

"You are most welcome, Robin, and I hope that you have a very long and illustrious career," J'onn smiled at the youngster he had grown most fond of over the last couple of weeks.

Robin grinned. "Oh, I will," he said, "for a very, very, _very_ long time."

* * *

**Reactions? **

**And I should probably go ahead and announce it now . . . Yes, there IS a sequel to Lab Rat! It is called "Lab Rat: Running Scared", but I promise as many twists and turns and ups and downs as in this one. Hope you all like Roller Coasters because the sequel will be a thrill ride with all the Robin Whump and DaddyBats that you crave. **

**Even better . . . The sequel will take place 3 years in the future in a crossover event between Batman and Young Justice! More people to traumatize - YEAH!  
**


	56. Epilogue: Robin's Back!

**Warning: Fluff Alert!**

* * *

"So, where are we going," Robin looked out the window watching the sun sink lower in the sky.

He seldom ever went out in his uniform while the sun was still up. Not that he was complaining. It had been weeks and weeks since he had last been allowed to wear it. All his time had been spent catching up on his schoolwork and training in the Batcave. He supposed he should be grateful he had been allowed to train at all. There had been no guarantee weeks ago that Batman was ever going to let him out of the cave again.

When Bruce had told him to go downstairs and suit up after an early dinner, Dick had been so ecstatic that he hadn't thought to glance at the time. It hadn't been until the batmobile had left the cave that Robin had noticed that it was still daylight. It was _hours_ before they normally started patrol. Weirder still, they had headed out of the city proper rather than into it.

"You'll see," Batman murmured and left it at that.

Robin nudged the package at his feet, curious. This was so far outside of what he knew as normal he didn't know where to begin asking questions. Batman had been so tight-lipped since he had changed that he didn't bother. Robin had thought it was because Batman was nervous about letting him go on patrol with him, but now he wasn't entirely sure that was the case after all.

When they turned off onto a side street in a middle-class residential area, Robin sat up. Was this a drug bust? Gun running? He had to admit, he wouldn't have expected the criminals to use a neat little house in a tidy neighborhood like this one.

He saw kids riding their bikes on the sidewalk only to stop and stare at the big, black car moving slowly past them. Robin smirked. He might have waved had the glass not been so tinted as to be completely opaque from the outside.

Ten minutes later, Batman parked in front of a beige ranch with brown trim. The yard wasn't a landscaper's dream, but it was neat. He jumped out of the car, package in hand, and followed Batman to the front door, tying to ignore the stares of the neighbors.

"Um, Batman?" Robin caught up to him and tugged his cape. "Should we be going up to the front door like this? Would you like for me to take the back door in case they run?"

One edge of his mentor's mouth quirked up the slightest bit. "No, chum. That won't be necessary."

Robin gaped as Batman rang the doorbell. _Seriously_?

The door opened a moment later to reveal Detective Harlow! He was wearing a Gotham City Knights jersey and a pair of jeans. He was barefoot. Robin's eyes widened behind his mask as he realized that they were at the man's house.

Harlow seemed as surprised to see them as Robin was at being here.

"Batman! What's wrong," he asked, acknowledging Robin with a nod.

"Nothing is wrong, Detective," Batman assured him. "We're here to meet Sam."

_Sam_? Who's Sam?

Harlow's mouth dropped open. After a second, he opened the door up wide, inviting them inside.

The room was neat, but somewhat spartan; a regular bachelor's pad . . . except for the cluster of miniaturized sporting equipment piled in the corner and the Batman plushie on the couch. Robin grinned. He hadn't even known they had Batman plushies in stores! He so wanted one and made a note to begin scheming on how to convince Bruce to buy him one tomorrow.

"Sam's out back," Harlow was saying. "He's going to go crazy when he sees you both. I'll probably never get him to sleep tonight. Thank God tomorrow's Saturday."

He led them to the sliding glass door in the dining room. Dinner dishes were soaking in a sink of bubbles. The doors and windows were open to the spring air and it smelled a lot like meatloaf and fresh-cut grass.

Robin followed Batman into the backyard and practically skidded to a halt, his shock written all over his face. There was a boy standing on a swing, rocking back and forth with a huge smile on his face. He didn't look to be much younger than Robin. He had the same haircut as his father did; only Sam's was a lighter brown than the detective's own dark color. But what surprised Robin most was what the boy was wearing.

Sam wore a red t-shirt with an 'R' drawn on the left with a black Sharpie; black jeans; black, Converse high-tops; a black, construction paper mask; and a bright, yellow blanket that had seen better days anchored around his neck with a safety pin.

Robin's mouth hitched up into a crooked grin. The kid was _terrific_! This was _too cool_! He was so used to seeing kids dressed up like Superman or Batman that he never expected to find his very own fan who dressed up like _him_: like _Robin_!

At that moment, Sam caught sight of the two heroes standing on his patio with his father. His mouth dropped open and you could see the boy's molars his grin was so wide. He leapt off of the swing, achieving impressive height and decent distance, and came at them at a dead run; a squeal of excitement echoing off the houses. He skidded to a halt in front of them, eyeing his father first for approval.

"Sam," Harlow said to his son, "I'd like you to meet Batman . . ."

Sam thrust his hand out immediately. "Nice to meet you, sir . . . Uh, Batman, sir," he said shyly. His eyes only darted past Batman to Robin once.

Batman solemnly shook the young boy's hand and nodded his head. "A pleasure, Sam. Your father has spoken highly of you."

Sam's eyes lit up at that. "Really? Wow!"

Harlow grinned. "And this is Robin," he said, continuing with the introductions.

The boy's eyes widened, and he gasped . . . quite literally gasped. Robin was delighted. He started to step forward to shake Sam's hand when the boy seemed to snap out of his revelry and scooted around Batman to stand directly in front of him. Sam bit his lip, and shoved his hand out in front of him. The boy's grin became impossibly wider.

"H-hi," the boy gulped. "I'm Sam. Are you really Robin?"

Funny that the child hadn't ask that question of Batman. Robin grinned at the boy; shaking his hand. "Hi, Sam! Yeah, I'm really Robin. Nice cape you have there."

The boy blushed and his hand going to the battered blanket; twisting it nervously. "Thank you. Um, Batman gave my dad a Batarang."

Robin turned disbelieving eyes on his mentor before turning back to the boy. "He did, did he? Do you have it on you?"

Sam swallowed, shaking his head. "No, it's inside. I'm not allowed to play with it without my dad's supervision. You really don't mind that I like you?"

Robin blinked; surprised. "Of course not, I'm glad you like me."

"I thought you didn't mind, but sometimes people think I'm weird. I didn't want you to be upset that I think you are so awesome." Sam dipped his head shyly, toeing the concrete.

Robin frowned at that cryptic bit of information. "I don't think you're weird at all. It's kind of flattering that you like me. Most kids I see usually want to emulate Batman, not me."

"But you are a _kid_, like _me_! And you can do all of this awesome stuff that Batman does even though you're still little, like _me_!" Sam gushed.

Robin didn't particularly care to be reminded about how small he was, but Sam made it seem kind of special. And it was _true_ that he could take down a full grown adult despite being 'little', so he supposed that _was_ pretty cool.

"That's because I've been trained by him. Batman wouldn't let me go out until he was sure I could handle myself. If it is okay with your dad," Robin glanced at the detective who was smiling indulgently at the two of them, "maybe you can go get your Batarang and I will show you how to throw it."

"Really?" Sam gave an ear-piercing squeal. He turned to his father. "Can I, Dad? Please?"

Harlow nodded. "No running with it," he added when the boy shot into the house at a dead run.

Harlow looked back at the two heroes, not quite believing they were standing on his patio. "You two really made his day. Thank you."

Batman pursed his lips and glanced at his partner. Despite his stoic expression, it was clear that the Dark Knight was amused. "I'm thinking that perhaps Robin made a bigger impression than I did."

Harlow laughed easily. "So it would seem. How are you feeling, Robin?"

"Back to normal, thank you," Robin responded politely as Alfred's etiquette lessons moved to the forefront of his mind. He handed the package he had brought in to the man. "I think this is for you," he said.

"What's this," Harlow asked, but his eyes looked knowing as he took the gift from the Boy Wonder.

"Actually, it is a little something for Sam," Batman told him. "But only if you approve."

The detective opened the package. Robin wanted to see what was in it also, and his mouth dropped open when the man pulled out a bright yellow cape with a collar and a simple black domino mask. Robin's eyes flew back to his mentor, but he was in complete Batman-mode; not even a twitch to hint at what the man was thinking.

"Holy . . ." Harlow gaped. "Wow! I don't know what to say . . . Sam's blanket _is_ getting pretty scruffy. He will _love_ this! You didn't have to do this, but thank you anyway."

"Your help was invaluable to me," Batman said quietly. If his eyes strayed to his son and partner, one couldn't tell beneath the lenses. "And Sam has great tastes in role models. You can give it to him or not, it is up to you."

Harlow nodded, understanding what he meant. He cleared his throat. "Uh, would either of you like a glass of iced tea? Sun-brewed Lipton," he told them. "Only the best for guests, you know!"

Robin nearly fell over when Batman accepted. He wished he had a video of this. Batman sipping iced tea on the back patio of someone's house while Robin had a play date with the guy's kid. He shook his head, but he was firmly lodged inside this episode of the Twilight Zone.

He snickered when he spotted a couple of heads peeking over the fence from a neighboring yard. He might just get his wish if someone used their cell phone to film this. It would probably end up on the internet by the time they got home from patrol tonight.

Sam came barreling through the screened door just as his father was handing them their drinks. Robin took a big drink, then setting his glass on the barbeque, took Sam's Batarang and moved out into the yard.

An hour later, the sun had set, and they had departed. Robin stared out of the passenger window as Batman drove the Batmobile back into the heart of the city. He had been surprised to find that Sam was just seven years old. The boy was big for his age and Robin had thought that the two of them had almost appeared to be the same age when he had caught a glimpse of their reflection in the sliding glass door. Sam was apparetly a quick study as well.

Sam had asked him, when he was sure that the adults couldn't overhear them, if it was better to be a vigilante than a police officer. The question had been a shock. Robin had glanced back at Batman and Detective Harlow as he prepared to answer. He didn't want to screw this up. He had a feeling this was something important to Sam.

"Sam," he had said carefully. "What Batman and I do is meant to support the police in their jobs, not to take their place. There are a lot of places that do not have vigilantes, and that is because they don't need them. Their heroes are good and honest men, like your father; the police and firefighters and paramedics who are the backbone of society. Right now, Gotham City has a need for people like Batman and me, but maybe one day, if we're lucky, she won't need us quite so badly. But Gotham will always need men like your dad out there protecting her."

Sam had looked back at his father who had been chatting quietly with Batman as they'd watched Robin give him lessons in Batarang throwing. He smiled and waved at his dad.

"Yeah," he agreed. "My dad is pretty awesome! I bet having Batman as a dad is pretty awesome, too."

Robin didn't bother correcting the boy. "He is that, Sam. He really is."

* * *

Getting a running start, Robin leapt off the building, laughter following along in his wake. It was with joy he counted down the seconds until he needed to shoot off another line. A fresh jump line shot out and he swung his feet to add to his momentum as he retracted the line; pulling him higher and faster than ever.

_Two months_! It had taken him two whole months of whining, pouting, and wheedling to finally convince Batman to take him back out on patrol. The wind in his hair and his cape flying behind him, Robin knew it had been totally worth it! He laughed again for the sheer thrill of it. He had missed the freedom and exhilaration that flying gave him.

As he reached the pinnacle of his swing, he released his line; tucking his body tight as he performed a quadruple somersault two hundred feet in the air before shooting out another. Glancing behind him, he saw a rare sight . . .

Batman laughing as he flew right along with him!

"Race you back to the Batmobile," Robin challenged and dived, using gravity to increase his speed significantly.

He was only a block away from the vehicle when an arm grabbed him around the waist; plucking him out of the air. He yelped in surprise, but didn't bother grabbing his captor for purchase. Batman _always_ caught him. Batman _never_ let him fall.

Batman released him seconds after they landed, and Robin spun around, grinning even as he admonished him.

"That's cheating!"

"And how do you get that," came the gravelly voice.

"I might have won if you hadn't grabbed me," but the force wasn't in his argument. It was far more likely that Batman would have won the race, and they both knew it. "Okay, maybe not, but we _might_ have tied."

"We did tie," Batman conceded; his smile and laughter from earlier gone, left some twenty stories in the air above them. But the humor was still there if one knew how to listen for it.

It had been a pretty good night even if Robin hadn't actually done much more than stand around and watch. The first and only time that he had attempted to engage a criminal, the guy had taken a swing at him. Robin had easily ducked the wild punch, but when he came up, the guy had been flat on his back with the Batman pummeling him within an inch of his life. Robin guessed Batman hadn't quite recovered from their ordeal with the Scarecrow yet, and Robin decided to take a backseat for the rest of the night, if only to spare the staff at the emergency room from becoming overwhelmed by a sudden influx of battered criminals.

It didn't matter though because Robin was _back_ and he was better than ever!

{Not even close to being - }

The End!

* * *

**REACTIONS? If you are moved by any of this, please let me know about it. Send me a review and let me know which was your favorite chapter! What mad you laugh and what made you cry? **

**Well, there you go . . . Happily Ever Until The Next Time! YEAH! **

**(9-17-15: Lab Rat reaches 30,000 views! Thank you all so much for reading my work, and especially for commenting and favoriting (Oh God, is that even a word?) it! Just because it is complete doesn't mean I don't look at new reviews, and if I can answer them, I will. But my thanks goes out to the many guests that read and review, too! Thank you! I love hearing from all of you . . . Gets me all pumped up and wanting to write more!**

**The sequel waiting . . . "Lab Rat: Running Scared"! ****I'm a little sad to see this end, but extremely excited to move on and possibly answer the question of Robin's fourth trigger. See ya, soon!**


	57. Sequel Update - Now Out!

If you would like to begin reading the sequel those are two options for you.

The story title is: **"Lab Rat: Running Scared" **and I changed the rating to a high "T" like the first story because I've been told that it isn't as bad as I initially thought. Better safe than sorry, though.

That being said, this is a _**crossover with Young Justice**_, but I chose to post it under **Batman** to make it easier for those who have read Lab Rat first to be able to easily find it.

Thank you and enjoy! Happy Reading!

1\. You can find this story by the title listed above, or

2\. Go to my profile and click on the story from there.

The sequel is more of a true horror than the first story as well.

I posted it this a high "T" because of some mature subjects that will be mentioned or touched on in the course of Running Scared. These include death imagery (NOT the same as character death), and suicidal thoughts or tendencies. This is posted as hurt/comfort/horror, so serious, disturbing, and traumatic scenes should be expected. This is NOT a tragedy, however, and the characters are NOT actual people, soooo . . . All in all, it is like swallowing bitter medicine (in that some of it is unpleasant) but following it up with a teaspoon of sugar (fluffy goodness).

Yeah, I know, **hurts so good**.


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